


The Depths of Dorcanis

by PSW



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Episode-type adventure, Gen, I hope :-)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-04-23 22:58:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PSW/pseuds/PSW
Summary: While undertaking a scientific and archeological mission on an uninhabited planet, several crew members begin to experience strange dreams and hallucinations.





	1. Chapter 1

_He was trapped._

_The hollow beneath the floorboards of the old, broken-down shed was barely large enough to fit him, even half-starved as he was, but it had seemed his only option. The soldiers had been chasing him for hours, through all of his usual haunts, and there had been no time to find a better hiding place. Caves, trees, abandoned mines—he'd been forced to pass all of them for fear that they'd catch up even in the scant time it would take him to duck in or climb up. He'd run, and they'd followed, and for the last twenty minutes or so he'd been in serious danger of being overtaken. On most days the soldiers would have had no chance—he was young and quick, and they were slow with age and drink—but it had been two days since he'd eaten and his head was spinning, his legs weak._

_Then … a miracle. Or what passed for one, here. He tripped over an exposed tree root and tumbled into a hidden gully, crashing painfully against rock and wood until he slammed to an abrupt halt on the dry, tumbled rock. His fingers cracked, his mouth bled, and his ribs screamed with every breath … but they didn't notice. They'd been coming out of the trees, and they didn't see him fall. For a few precious minutes they followed his previous path, and it gave him his chance. He crawled painfully, fervently, and when he finally thought it safe to risk a glance over the edge, he saw the ramshackle stable at the bottom of the rise._

_They were returning by then, aware that they had lost him, that they must have passed him somewhere along the way. He scrambled out of the ravine and threw himself down the hill, crashing and rolling, making enough noise to alert half the planet of his whereabouts—if the flight of mock-sparrows startled by his passage didn't do it for him. The soldiers didn't catch up, though. They didn't_ see _him before he dove through the half-rotten door, didn't reach the bottom of the hill until he had slipped painfully beneath a couple of broken floorboards into a washed-out hollow beneath, against the cracked, crumbling foundation. He could just as easily have passed the stable and escaped into the woods._

_It was his only hope. His only chance. If they found him now, he had nowhere to go._

_The rotten door crumbled beneath a rough blow, the top swinging back to hit the wall and the bottom disintegrating onto the worn wooden planks. The floor crackled beneath the heavy boots, the muffled jumble of swearing and spitting drifted to his ears. His hollow was barely deep enough—the rough boards above him dug into his chest and cheek, splinters gouging through his thin shirt. He could feel the give of the boards as the soldiers searched, rustling with their phaser rifles through piles of damp, rotten hay and shoving the remains of a battered wagon away from the wall. The footsteps moved closer, the voices grew louder. They were still indistinct—his fear blurred the words as much as the wet ground against his head on one side and the wood pressed tight against the other—but he could hear their anger._

_They had expected to catch him by now. They wanted to be home, out of the sullen mist and sharp chill and eating their fill._

_It was what they worked for, wasn't it? Food and shelter? A rare commodity here—worth, they thought, trading their common decency and sense of justice …_

_A footstep close by, and the boards bowed against his face. His heart raced._

_He was trapped …_

"Jim!"

A hand shook him roughly, and a jolt of adrenaline followed a cool hiss against his neck. Jim Kirk startled up from the ground, and the hand around his bicep tightened.

"Whoa there. Slow down, go slow."

Kirk squinted against the headache and his pounding heart into McCoy's worried blue eyes. He sat up slowly, pushing against the hard, dusty ground beneath him, and rubbed at his eyes. "What happened?"

McCoy shook his head and sat back on his heels. "Must have been one of those power surges. We were all knocked clean out."

Kirk looked around them sharply. The other three members of their party, Lieutenants Lincoln and Jersa from Security and Ensign Catrell from Geology, were sprawled nearby, muttering and rubbing at their foreheads and shoulders. Jersa looked to have damaged his wrist in the fall—at least, he held it close against his chest as he knelt by Lincoln, speaking softly—but otherwise everyone seemed fine.

Except, of course, that they had all been rendered unconscious by the planet's as-yet-unstudied energy fluctuations.

"Well." He focused again on McCoy. "I guess now we know they're not completely harmless." The lines around Bones' eyes were pronounced—he was suffering from a headache too, at the very least. The doctor scowled and stood, offering Kirk a hand up.

"Not the way I'd have preferred to gather my research."

"No. Effective, though." Kirk gathered his balance and released McCoy, eyeing the sheer brown cliff that rose above them. There was no way up—they had walked for an hour to find a way around, and they would have to take the same path back. His head throbbed. "How long were we out?"

"Bout thirty minutes, best as I can tell."

Kirk nodded slowly. "All right. We should probably head back to camp, let Spock know what happened. We'll need to implement some sort of safety protocols while we're here."

"Right." McCoy shook his head. "Although how we go about guarding against surges we still can't see coming, I have no idea." He grimaced. "Teach us to go wandering off without any idea what we're getting into."

"Bones." Kirk quirked a grin, wincing as pain lanced through his head. "When has that ever stopped us before?"

"Hmph."

Kirk chuckled and gripped McCoy's arm, then turned toward Ensign Catrell to help her up. "Well, maybe Spock and his people will know something new when we get back." He nodded to Lincoln and Jersa, and hauled Catrell gently to her feet.

The nightmare—if that was what it had been—faded from his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Dorcanis V was devoid of life. It hadn't always been so—the survey team from the USS  _Camden_  had noted the remains of a long-dead civilization tucked into what must once have been the lush, protected valleys of the southernmost continent. It had not, at least according to their initial scans, been a large or a widespread people, but the survey team had been able to determine very little else during their brief encounter with the planet. Dorcanis V's ancient civilization was one of the primary goals of the  _Enterprise_  crew during this current assignment—study of the people and of the forces which had rendered both them and all other life on the planet extinct.

Those forces, whatever their actual source (or sources), were not entirely natural ones. Even the most perfunctory of scans from the bridge of the  _Enterprise_  had revealed definite patterns to the scarring of the planet's terrain, although they were insufficient to reveal the cause. The incident—whatever it had been—had occurred so long ago that the sensors weren't able to tell if the damage was the result of a strafing from space, indiscriminate strip-mining, or any of a dozen other possibilities. The geologists and archeologists would, it seemed, have their hands full.

Complicating matters was an oddity of the planet itself—seemingly random bursts of some unidentified form of power or energy over the whole of the planet. There was no pattern to their timing, at least as far as the  _Camden's_  survey team had been able to tell. There was also no pattern to their appearance or effects. Some flickered like lightning, some barely appeared on their instruments. Some were localized, some more widespread. Some made the air crackle with static, some made the ground shiver beneath their feet. And the source and composition of the surges were entirely unknown.

These energy bursts were the  _Enterprise_  crew's other primary goal.

Spock glanced up, into the hot sunlight that fell beyond the cover of the temporary field pavilion. He noted the return of the captain's party; however, they were still at some distance, and he returned his attention to the instruments before him. The random nature of this planet's energy phenomena was a challenge to his orderly, rational mind—one which he had every intention of meeting and overcoming. He could not say that he was excited by the task before him. That would be an emotion and therefore an incorrect description. He did, though, view the work before him and his team with intense satisfaction. There was that which was immeasurably pleasing about the prospect of an entirely new scientific conundrum, and one which those before them—however briefly that team had focused on the quandary—had been unable to solve. It was the greater part of why he had chosen to join Starfleet, why he had accepted assignment on a starship when he had been urged so strongly to remain on Vulcan. His scientist's soul rejoiced in the unknown, and Dorcanis V represented exactly that.

As of yet they had discovered very little of use, but they had been on the surface for less than a day. Most of that time had been spent in setting up tents and equipment, running test and calibration simulations, and outfitting the scientific and archeological teams. Darkness would be upon them in less than two hours, and so it was unlikely that they would accomplish much more today. A couple of Spock's lieutenants had programmed the equipment to record overnight, to take impressions of any change—be it geological, electrical, radiological, or otherwise—during the hours of darkness. At this point, they had no sense of focus to know which readings were important and which were merely background information, and so they must observe it all. Lieutenant Haron and Ensign Reece would remain on duty throughout the night as a matter of diligence, but the real work would begin with the coming of dawn.

The captain's party approached the pavilion, and Spock turned his attention from his equipment. There was a weariness to their movements that he might have attributed to several hours of wandering through warm, unfamiliar territory had he not also noted Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Lincoln rubbing absently at their foreheads and Lieutenant Jersa cradling an obviously injured wrist. He stepped out to greet them, noting upon closer inspection the deep lines of pain around McCoy's eyes and the barest limp in Ensign Catrell's step.

"Captain." Spock nodded briefly as the party came to a halt. "What has happened?"

Kirk dismissed the rest of the group. The Security lieutenants and Geology ensign instantly scattered, only to be recalled by a sharp word from McCoy and a demand that everyone head to the Medical tent for a scan  _now_ —and that he expected the captain there as well, once Kirk was done here. Spock lifted an eyebrow, observing the uncontested change of direction, and returned his attention to Kirk. The captain began to fold his arms across his chest, then stopped and dug roughly at his temple with the heel of his hand.

"We took on one of your energy surges, Mr. Spock, and didn't come out on top."

Spock frowned. " _Took on?_  Clarify."

Kirk wandered into the shade of the pavilion and flopped into one of the camp chairs. "I don't really remember anything—none of us do—but about three hours in we all just woke up at the base of a cliff. McCoy says we were unconscious for about half an hour."

"All of you, sir?" This was … both unfortunate and felicitous. There had been no sign to this point, either from the  _Camden_  team's observations or his own, that the surges were harmful. However, as their current knowledge was extremely limited, there had as yet been no real basis upon which to make any assumption regarding the surges' injury potential. That question was, apparently, now answered, at least in a basic sense. While the method by which they had gained the knowledge was of course not one that Spock would have preferred, the data would indeed be useful.

"Seems that way. At least, we were all flat on our backs."

They would need to take safety precautions above what they had already planned, especially with the exploratory teams. The news might even bring about a delay in releasing those teams—one which the team leaders and the archeology group would certainly protest. He was, however, the mission lead and claimed the right of final decision. There was little benefit to risking crew members' safety when two days' delay may render them far more prepared to offer some basic manner of protection against just such circumstances as had occurred to the captain and his party. They could not wait indefinitely, of course, and if no such information was forthcoming in the next few days he would be forced to send the teams out regardless. There was no point, though, in being rashly expeditious.

"Given Doctor McCoy's relative lack of agitation, may I assume that all party members escaped serious injury?"

"As far as he could tell with just his medkit, but you know Bones." Kirk's voice took on a touch of mild impatience. "He'll have us in there doing deep scans for the next five hours just to make sure. If he finds anything I'll let you know."

"Indeed. I will be interested to view the doctor's data regardless of what he discovers."

It was impossible to do a full study of the effects of Dorcanis V's energy surges on biological life—one rather vexing impediment to their data-gathering efforts. It was conceivable that the surges had been either partially or significantly responsible for the disappearance of Dorcanis V's culture. However, it would, of course, be ethically reprehensible to purposely expose crew members to the surges for the sake of study. While they might gather some data from experiments with plant and simulated animal exposure, such substitutes did not offer a true comparison, and their conclusions would of necessity be somewhat incomplete. Spock did not begrudge this—while some scientists and ethicists argued that exposure of researchers to such dangers was an acceptable practice for the sake of the knowledge gained, Spock was not one of them and had no intention of doing so. Extrapolated data must suffice. That said, if the information already existed he was more than satisfied to make use of it.

He hesitated. Doctor McCoy would, of course, be likely to accuse him of being cold, predatory, or any number of other unpleasant adjectives when he made his request—the doctor was, he suspected, far too tired and in pain at the moment to recognize the logic of Spock's actions. Spock was Vulcan, and therefore such accusations had no repercussions for him. However … it might be prudent all the same to wait until the next morning to request the data. McCoy was a researcher himself. With a good night's sleep, it was to be hoped (even if past experience led Spock to question this logic) that perhaps the doctor would be more inclined to see reason without any type of accompanying emotional outburst.

Even so, Spock offered to accompany Kirk to the Medical tent. The captain nodded and levered himself back out of the camp chair. As they wound through the tents and skirted groups of crew members putting together equipment and survey packs, Kirk offered a brief summary of what his party had seen and recorded during their walk.

"We didn't run across much that wasn't already noted by the  _Camden's_ people. Ensign Catrell didn't pick up anything from the rocks themselves—nothing out of the ordinary, anyway."

"Indeed." Spock nodded and ducked to enter the tent behind Kirk. "That would correspond with our initial readings from this site as well. However, we have much yet to survey, and many tests which have not been run."

"Of course, Mr. Spock." Kirk cast a glance around them. "Did Medical get a smaller tent this time? What happened to the other one?"

Spock followed the captain's gaze around the inside of the tent. Lieutenant Jersa was on a corner cot, submitting to Nurse Chapel's ministrations with a bone knitter. Ensign Catrell was being scanned by McCoy near the front entrance, and Lieutenant Lincoln nodded as she slipped past them back into the wider camp. Several other nurses moved about the enclosed area, setting equipment and preparing first aid kits. "This is the same tent which Medical is always assigned, Captain."

"Really?" Kirk shuddered. "Seems smaller." He shook himself abruptly, then strode across to McCoy and Ensign Catrell. "Bones! Ensign." The captain smiled at the young woman. "How do you feel?"

"Fine, Captain." She hopped off of the cot, returning Kirk's smile. "Dr. McCoy has just cleared me."

"A minor swelling in her right knee, but nothing an anti-inflammatory hypo and a night's sleep won't fix." McCoy made a note on his pad, then nodded. "Thank you, Ensign."

"And you, Doctor." She hurried away, and Kirk looked toward McCoy.

"What about you, Bones?"

"Haven't checked yet. Figured I'd get everybody else out of the way first." He nodded toward the cot. "Up, Jim. Might as well get it over with." Kirk slid unenthusiastically onto the vacated seat, and McCoy scowled over at Spock, resetting his tricorder. "What gives with this tent anyway, Spock? Was there something wrong with the other one?"

Spock blinked. "What 'other one', Doctor?"

"The  _usual_  one!" McCoy started his scan, eyes fixed on the readout. "This one is too tight, I feel like I'm suffocating in here."

Spock furrowed his brow and resurveyed the tent. No, his original assessment had been correct. "This is Medical's usual tent, Doctor. As I informed the Captain a moment ago."

"Jim?" McCoy glanced up for a second, and Kirk nodded.

"Seems small to me too." The captain shrugged. "Probably just because this whole planet is so empty—makes anything except the wide open spaces seem … I don't know, undersized."

"Maybe." McCoy didn't appear convinced, but he fell silent as he continued the scan. Spock pondered briefly the unlikely coincidence of both Kirk and McCoy reacting in the same illogical manner to a tent they had both seen more than a dozen times, but his thoughts were cut off by the hiss of a hypospray and McCoy's voice. "There Jim, that should take care of the headache."

"Thanks." The captain rolled his neck gently. "Well?"

"Healthy as a horse."

"Good to hear."

"Brainwave activity is a little off of normal, but probably nothing that's not explained by the jolt we all took earlier. It was the same with the others too. I'll follow up in a few days." McCoy looked around. "I assume you'll be wanting a copy of these scans, Mr. Spock?" Spock was unable to hide the surprised lift of his eyebrow, and McCoy chuckled gleefully, realizing that he had defied the Vulcan's expectations. "Wouldn't want to stand in the way of scientific progress, would we?"

"Indeed, Doctor."

McCoy's grin widened at the dry bite in Spock's tone. "I'll have them to you as soon as I get my own scans finished and recorded."

"Very well."

Kirk eyed both of them, the hint of his own grin lurking around the corners of his mouth. Spock was just as pleased that the captain chose not to speak—he suspected that Kirk was more likely to join McCoy's side of this … situation than his own. He determined that a retreat was necessary before Kirk had an opportunity to change his mind regarding participation.

"I will return to my own station, Captain, if you have no further need of me."

"By all means, Spock." Kirk slid off the cot and nodded to McCoy. "Doctor?"

"You're good, Jim."

"Thank you." Kirk joined Spock, and together they made their way back to the tent opening. Spock did not miss the captain's final quick survey of the inside of the Medical tent or the soft sigh of relief when they ducked back out into the wider camp, but neither did he know to what to make of them.


	3. Chapter 3

An additional two days of scanning and study from the main camp brought them very little except more questions. Despite the best efforts of the  _Enterprise_  team, the timing and potential location of forthcoming surges remained a singular mystery. Given their grueling schedule over the past forty-eight hours and the number of crew members involved, the slow progress was most vexing. If Spock wasn't a Vulcan and immune to such petty sentiments, he might have been tempted to take the planet's complete lack of cooperation … somewhat personally.

As it was, Spock found that he was no longer in a legitimate position to insist that the archeological team remain in the confines of the main camp. The archeology lead, Lieutenant Jason Drummand, was anxious to be started, and had been making his position known at ever-increasing volume for the past 36.4 hours. Spock remembered the day that Drummand had come aboard, under Captain Pike's previous Science Officer, and his own misgivings at the time. Those reservations had not proved entirely unfounded. Drummand was a difficult man to work with—abrasive, insistent to a fault, and immune to even the most basic of logical arguments when that logic did not support his own desires. He was, however, extremely intelligent, and his work was excellent. He was not well-liked, perhaps, but his ability to both personally multi-task and to direct several projects at once had earned him a grudging respect among his colleagues.

If Spock's own team had been able to offer him any real expectation of an imminent breakthrough regarding the energy surges, Drummand's demands would have carried very little weight. Crew safety was, of course, his primary concern, and Captain Kirk's as well. They had nothing, though, and the  _Enterprise's_  time on Dorcanis V, while flexible, was not unlimited. He was also forced to consider the fact that neither his own team nor the  _Camden's_  original survey team had noted another instance of direct contact with the energy surges. It seemed that the experience of the captain's party was - to this point at least - unique. Drummand was quite correct that his team was already behind, and that they would require every second available to them in order to comprehensively study the ancient ruins. As much as Spock disliked sending crew members into a situation that may or may not present greater risks than the average planetary excavation, he also could not justify delaying the archeological mission further while he and his team searched for answers that may be days or even weeks in the finding.

They were, after all, in Starfleet. Some level of risk was an accepted component of their duties.

He gave authorization for Drummand's team to remove at sunup to their primary dig site, a protected valley which housed what appeared to have been Dorcanis V's single large urban center. Drummand stomped away, yelling for his team to pack up and muttering, "Finally," beneath his breath. As the word was not loud enough to have been heard by anyone but him, Spock chose to ignore the lieutenant's grumbling. Odds were high that the man hadn't realized Spock would hear, either—Spock had noted in the past that humans tended to forget about his acute hearing—but had been simply 'blowing off steam.' He was certain the complaint would go no further—a gossip was one thing Drummand was not—and there was no point in stirring up excess ill will over so small a thing.

Spock retired back to the main pavilion and took his seat. From this vantage point, over the central monitor which displayed the constant updates from his own team's probes and sensors, he could see Drummand's team members hurrying about the camp. He spared a moment in observation. The dig team had been mostly ready to go since they had arrived on Dorcanis V. All that remained was to pack the remainder of their equipment into the shuttlecraft  _Galileo_  and  _Einstein_  for transport. The majority of the team would beam across to the dig site in the morning. It would have been possible to beam the equipment over as well; however, as the shuttlecraft had been made available for the use of the archeological team, there was little point in flying them to the dig site empty. Mr. Scott had also been most pleased at the thought of the lessened demands on his beloved transporters.

Two Geology ensigns assigned to the dig team crossed the camp toward the Medical tent to collect their first aid packs. Spock tracked their progress briefly, and was about to turn his full attention to the data before him when his gaze landed on Dr. McCoy. Spock sat back, eyes narrowed.

Dr. McCoy. The doctor's behavior had been … somewhat altered since his return with Kirk and the others from the captain's aborted survey hike. Spock was at a loss to explain it, given the available data, and uncertain what to make of the change. There had been no particular issue or obvious occasion for concern—in fact, far from his usual antagonistic behavior, McCoy had been oddly passive since the incident. It would have been a pleasant change, except that unexplained behavioral alterations were not, at least in Spock's experience, usually benign.

McCoy had also been … distracted, for lack of a better descriptive. It was barely noticeable, more the odd hesitation or brief recheck of his data from time to time than any overt loss of focus. Nevertheless, Spock did not believe his assessment flawed. At this moment, the CMO was seated in a folding chair just outside of the Medical tent (which he had barely entered in the last days, citing the same suffocating tightness of which he had complained during Kirk's scan), pad in hand—and yet Spock was certain that the doctor's eyes were not fixed on the pad, but on the dust at his feet.

The changes were … troubling.

Under normal circumstances, Spock would have long ago approached Kirk with his observations—the captain was admittedly a far better interpreter of human action and emotion than he. However … Spock paused for a moment to control and discard his sense of growing unease. However, he did not believe that Kirk had escaped the encounter with the surge unscathed, either.

The signs were subtler—or perhaps simply more in line with Kirk's usual character. The curt questions, the abrupt responses, the dark circles beneath his eyes denoting a lack of sufficient sleep were all mannerisms with which Spock was familiar, and which had in the past been the direct result of any number of varying incidents. He had been tempted in the beginning to simply accept Kirk's explanation of a lingering headache, and would likely have done so but for the captain's sudden and puzzling tendency to startle at the least incentive.

This symptom was less easily dismissed than the others. Kirk was not a man to be taken off-guard by his surroundings. It was an ingrained habit, developed through years of tactical training and battles, both simulated and real-life. Spock had, however, personally witnessed the captain startle a total of twenty-three times in the past two days. He could not speculate regarding how often it had occurred out of his line of sight, but he had no reason to believe that it had  _not_. Perhaps even more disturbing were the minor characters of the precipitating events—a crew member cutting too close to Kirk on his way across the camp, mild equipment clatter, a query from an ensign who had been standing at the captain's shoulder for more than five minutes. Further observation had left Spock … unsettled. The captain's actions and behavior were, since the time of his encounter with the energy surge, distinctly wary. Not suspicious—the word indicated a level of awareness that Spock suspected was not present—but cautious.  _Hunted_ , almost.

He was at a loss regarding how to proceed. Usually in such a situation he would approach Dr. McCoy with his concerns, however …

Spock returned his attention to his monitor and the data scrolling before him, breaking that train of thought before such circular thinking could be allowed to continue. It did not matter what he would  _normally_  do in such a situation. He could not consult the captain, he could not consult Dr. McCoy. He had no solid proof of anything with which to approach any other crew member at this time, given that his concerns centered around the captain and another senior officer. Perhaps if he knew whether the other members of the captain's party had been affected as well …

Ensign Catrell was new to his staff, however. He did not know Lieutenant Jersa beyond a recognizable face in the corridors, and while he was familiar with Lieutenant Lincoln, he did not know her well enough to recognize the type of subtle behavior changes that he had noted in Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy. In any event, he had barely seen the Security second-in-command since they had beamed down from the  _Enterprise_. Her duties had not kept her close to the main camp.

No, his only recourse at this juncture was to observe and study. Whatever was happening with Kirk and McCoy, the logical conclusion was that responsibility lay with some as-yet-undiscovered feature of one of Dorcanis V's energy surges. He had as yet seen nothing in the preliminary data which might even remotely begin to explain any such changes; however, research had barely begun. Spock bent his head to his task. It was possible that time would decrease the symptoms and that his concerns would come to nothing. If not, however, they would need all the information regarding the energy surges that they could obtain.

The stakes, as Dr. McCoy would say, had been raised.

* * *

 

_She was trapped._

_Peter had called in sick and Teresa left at ten o'clock. There had been no one to walk her back to her apartment after she closed the kitchen at the end of the night. She hadn't been concerned—the area had always been relatively safe, and she only lived four blocks away. She locked the door behind her and started down the walk toward the main street._

_She heard the footsteps behind her after about five minutes. At first she thought nothing of them. When she turned the corner, though, and they followed, she pulled her coat tight and snuck a glance behind her. They were just passing beneath an overhead light, two of them. They saw her look, knew that she had seen them, and picked up their pace._

_Her heart was in her throat. Could she make it home? Should she knock on a door and hope for the best from whoever answered?_

_They were closer now, moving faster, she wouldn't make it … She turned toward the nearest building, and a hand grabbed her arm. She jerked around, pulled away, and came face to face with her other pursuer._

_There was nowhere to go. She was trapped …_

Carrie Catrell bolted out of her Starfleet-issue bunk, her heart pounding. The dark tent pressed in on her, shutting her in, holding her down, and she stumbled outside, thankfully clearing the tent flaps before she vomited onto the hard, dusty ground.

She hadn't dreamed about that in years, and now two nights in a row. Even though the incident hadn't progressed any further—an elderly man with a phaser rifle in an upper-story apartment and a couple leaving the near building at exactly the right moment had seen to that—she'd had nightmares on and off for months. They'd finally faded, though, and it had been years since she'd had one.

Carrie shivered. Why now? She was halfway across the quadrant, on a planet that looked nothing like Seattle at night. Why should she possibly be dreaming about this again now?

She shivered, and brushed away a stray tear, and crouched down against the backside of the tent, folding her arms tightly around her.

* * *

 

"… don't know, but she's been acting really strange since we got here. When I woke up last night her bunk was empty, and as far as I know she didn't come back until morning."

The drifting snatch of conversation caught Spock's attention, and he looked around. He located the two female crew members who had been speaking and followed their gaze to Ensign Caroline Catrell, who was just joining the next group to be beamed to the dig site.

Ensign Catrell. Very well. He would take this comment, out of context as it admittedly was, as an indication that all was perhaps not well with the other members of Kirk's party. In which case, it was now incumbent upon him to share his concerns, given that both Ensign Catrell and Lieutenant Lincoln were assigned to the archeology dig and would be outside his immediate area of influence for the foreseeable future. Not only would those crew members require additional monitoring, but general observation of the entire archeological expedition would now be prudent, especially in the unlikely event of an encounter with another energy surge.

Spock glanced around the camp and located Christine Chapel, who would be serving as the head of Medical at the dig site. She appeared to be making a final count of the medical equipment aboard the  _Einstein_ , and was at the moment relatively isolated from the general clamor which had engulfed the rest of the camp. He snatched up a pad from the nearest table, uncaring of what it contained but desirous that anyone viewing them from afar would believe he was discussing some inventory issue or other last-minute detail, and moved to join her.


	4. Chapter 4

He heard the approaching footsteps, but thought very little of them. The field pavilion was a high-traffic area, the hub of operations for Spock's team and the central processing center for all of their collected data. One could very rarely count on being alone there, even at 0320. He had been somewhat surprised to find the area deserted when he had returned at 0100 after a brief period of meditation, but pleased that whatever occupied this night's crew apparently did not require the use of any of the pavilion's equipment. Although he was perfectly capable of blocking out conversation and other distractions, it was far simpler when such effort was not required. His concern regarding the unusual conduct exhibited by the captain and Dr. McCoy had deepened considerably in the three days since Drummand's team had transported to the dig site, and he preferred to bend as much of his concentration as possible to the task at hand.

"Mr. Spock, can we talk to you?"

Spock looked up, diverting attention from his spectrographic analysis and suppressing a surge of annoyance—unwelcome proof that he would soon require either sleep or more than a scant few hours of meditation. The sight which greeted him was … surprising. Bunched in a group just inside the ring of the pavilion's overhead lights were Lieutenants Garrovick and Haron and Nurse Wylean—the site's Security head, Spock's assistant Science lead, and Christine Chapel's assistant Head Nurse. All three radiated the same uncomfortable but determined air, and Spock sat back, fighting a sense of weary inevitability. It was illogical, of course, to expect that no one else would notice the increasingly obvious behavioral aberrations of two highly visible senior officers. It had been only a matter of time. He had not, however, expected such a direct approach.

"Indeed." Spock gestured toward the scattered seats, and the three started forward. "I cannot, of course, guarantee privacy for any length of time."

"No one will come, sir." Haron procured a camp chair for Nurse Wylean, and then one for himself. Spock lifted an eyebrow, questioning. "I ordered the overnight team to the secondary equipment tent after midnight. They're fine-tuning the vibration sensors and the voltage meters."

This was not precisely an impromptu discussion, then. "I see. Do they know why?"

Haron hesitated, then shrugged briefly. " _I_  didn't tell them."

Spock had served with Garrett Haron for long enough to read between the lines of this enigmatic statement. The situation was not yet a topic of general conversation (well and good)—however, the crew of the Federation flagship was an intelligent collection of individuals. There was little doubt that individual and small-group speculation was rampant.

The accuracy of such speculation was less certain.

"Very well. How may I be of assistance?"

In this, Haron and Wylean seemed content to let Garrovick take the lead. The young Security officer flipped an armless chair around and straddled it, folding his arms across the top of the canvas back. The position looked … precarious. Spock spared a moment to ponder why humans invariably chose the most ergonomically unsound posture available in any given situation—indeed, he would certainly need to sleep quite soon—then returned his attention to the topic at hand. A long look passed between his visitors, and then Garrovick spoke.

"What's wrong with them, sir?"

"Clarify."

Garrovick huffed softly, but complied. "The captain and Dr. McCoy, sir. And Lieutenant Jersa. What's  _wrong_  with them? Do you know?"

Lieutenant Jersa. He was singularly unsurprised.

"What leads you to believe that something is wrong, Lieutenant?"

Kara Wylean sat forward, frowning. "Mr. Spock …"

He held up a hand. "I have no intention of offering insult, Nurse. I simply wish to know what you have observed."

"Oh." She sat back, mollified. The three exchanged another quick glance, and she continued. "All right. Dr. McCoy has been extremely distracted. I had to speak to him three times earlier today to get his attention, and he wasn't even doing anything. He was just sitting there." Spock nodded. This matched his own recent observations. "He's also …" Wylean paused, searching for words. "I think he's  _depressed_ , sir. At least, his behavior lines up with depressive symptoms, and he …" She was obviously uncomfortable, but pushed on. "Just before he snapped out of it today and spoke to me … the look in his eyes, sir. It was just … resigned. Overwhelmed. I've never seen him look like that."

It was apparent that Wylean was as distressed by her concern for McCoy himself as by the overall oddity of his symptoms. She was a compassionate woman—an asset in the medical profession, certainly—and the doctor's staff held him in great affection. Spock thanked her, turning over this new information in his mind. It did not, unfortunately, offer any answers, but only added to the overall puzzle.

"And the captain?"

Garrovick shook his head. "Captain Kirk has been …" He hesitated, and Spock saw extreme reluctance in the young man's eyes.

"Speak your mind, Lieutenant."

"Yes sir. The captain is afraid of something, sir." The words were accompanied by a visible flinch, as if it was physically painful for Garrovick to admit such a thing. Indeed, most of the  _Enterprise_  crew held Kirk on a pedestal of sorts, and Garrovick perhaps more than others, given the captain's history with his own father. "I don't think he even realizes it, though. At least, it's not like he's afraid of anything specific, or even anything  _here_." This, too, Spock had noted for himself. "He's been going out with the survey teams still, you know, he'd never just sit around camp, but it's like part of him is expecting …" Garrovick, like Wylean, was struggling. "It's not so much like he's defending, it's more like he's  _hiding_ , sir. If that makes any sense."

The  _words_  made sense. Their import was less certain.

Depression and fear. What did the two, in this case, have in common?

"I've got …" Garrovick hesitated, then squared his shoulders. "I've got a couple of people on him at all times, sir."

Spock quirked an eyebrow. "And how does the captain feel about this?"

Garrovick chuckled softly. "He's annoyed, but I just gave him the standard line about protecting the captain in unknown territory. He didn't put up too much of a fight."

"Very good." Spock nodded approval. "Thank you, Lieutenant." Garrovick relaxed, relieved that his initiative had not been rebuffed. "What of Lieutenant Jersa?"

The young Security officer shook his head. "He's harder to pin down, sir, but something's definitely off. It's like … he seems  _ultra_ -focused, almost. Like he's taking detailed note of our surroundings and he's about to slip into survival mode at any second. It's …" He trailed off, at a loss, and then pinned Spock with his eyes. "Do you know what's wrong with them, sir?"

Depression, fear, and survival instinct. The mystery, as it were, deepened. Spock took a long breath. Although it was not logical, he regretted his response.

"I do not."

Garrovick swore softly, and Wylean looked down. Haron spoke. "It has to do with these energy surges, though, doesn't it?"

Even now, he had no definitive proof. It must be—and yet, nothing they had observed over the past week lent any support to that hypothesis. Any damage incurred from any of the surges they had recorded and studied should, in theory at least, be far less subtle. "I think it … likely."

"Right." Haron chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "Sir, about those …" He trailed off. Spock eyed the young lieutenant with interest, wondering if Haron and the rest of his team could have arrived at the same conclusion of which he himself had been certain for more than two days. He waited, but his subordinate seemed reluctant to continue.

"Lieutenant?"

Haron sucked in a breath, bracing himself. "Sir, these surges … they're not natural occurrences. They  _can't_  be."

Very observant. Spock was pleased. "Agreed."

Haron's breath exploded outward. He relaxed, exchanged a relieved glance with Wylean, and leaned forward eagerly. "Then what  _are_  they? Where are they coming from?"

That, indeed, was the question.

"I do not know."

* * *

 

_She was trapped._

_The Klingons had come out of nowhere. The_ Brigadoon _had been close to the Klingon border for the past six weeks, patrolling for any sign of Klingon incursion, but in all that time they'd seen no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Hyper-vigilance for any extended length of time wore crew members down—the captain was as aware of this as any ship's CMO. He'd arranged for this brief shore leave on an uninhabited planet, and now, suddenly, they were surrounded._

_It was her second landing party since graduation, and even though her job as Security was the safety of the other crew members, she had no idea what to do. Everyone had scattered when the raiding parties had appeared, and here she was now in a low, shallow cave with two Botany ensigns and an Engineering lieutenant. The Klingons were prowling the nearby area, beating the bushes and firing randomly at anything that rustled or moved. The ensigns were frozen with horror, huddled together near the rear of the cave. The lieutenant had stayed forward with her, but was little help._

" _Maybe Chief Hill will find us?"_

_Maybe, but she wasn't sure they would make it until that happened—if it happened at all. The Klingons, for all their noise and bluster, were conducting a frighteningly thorough search. Given the group's precarious positioning—a fairly exposed hollow set close to the Klingons' current search grid—she had little hope that they would remain unnoticed._

_This presented her with a terrifying choice._

_They could keep still and hope against hope that the Klingons would somehow miss them, or that their own Security parties would appear to drive the Klingons away before they were discovered. Or …_

_She drew in a long, deep breath, and tried to force away the fear._

_Or she could make a run for it, draw the Klingons' attention, and hope that they were distracted enough in chasing her that the others could remain undetected until help arrived._

_The fear almost froze her. What would they do to her if they caught her? Would they kill her immediately? Or would they question her? Hurt her? She'd learned terrible things about the Klingons in the Academy, about what they did to captured enemies in order to learn Federation secrets …_

_The Botany ensigns were visibly shaking. The Engineering lieutenant hovered just back from her position at the mouth of their cave, torn between fear and duty._

_She felt torn herself—so torn. So scared._

_Her life for theirs? She had barely made it into space. She'd seen nothing,_ done _nothing. She_ knew _nothing—nothing except her job as Security and the fear of her companions._

_Her life for theirs. She was trapped …_

"Tara?"

Her name and a hand on her elbow startled Tara Lincoln, and she reacted instinctively, seizing the arm that held her. She drove her unknown assailant into the dust at her feet, feeling the bones of the slender wrist flex beneath her fingers. A frantic yelp reached her.

"Tara!"

She blinked, and the dig site came into sharp focus around her. Confused, she looked down at Christine Chapel, crouched on the ground with one arm locked protectively over her head. Half-excavated brick and stone buildings loomed over them, a row of sleeping tents sat behind her, the gentle slope of what had once been a lush green valley rose beyond the camp. The main work tents were still lit, of course, but otherwise the camp sat in post-dusk darkness, lit dimly by the quarter-phase light of the planet's two moons. She squinted back down at Chapel.

What was she even doing out here? She'd been off shift, sleeping. How in the world did she end up halfway across camp in the middle of—

"Tara?"

She swore, and dropped Chapel's arm. The head nurse stood up slowly, brushing off her blue uniform, and Tara backed away, feeling the first rush of fear and a horrified embarrassment. "I'm so sorry, I don't …" She didn't even know where to start.

Chapel followed her, putting out a gentle but restraining hand. "Tara, wait. You were sleepwalking."

"Sleepwalking?" She'd never done anything like that before …

"I was headed back to the Medical tent after my last round of night meds and I saw you go by. I could tell that you weren't completely awake, and I didn't want you to hurt yourself." Chapel's voice was soft, soothing. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Tara stared. Her head hurt, and she couldn't breathe right … "I could have hurt you! I'm  _so_  sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Chapel's fingers tugged gently. "Come back to Medical with me. I want to give you a scan."

Just perfect.  _Exactly_  what she needed.

"I'm sure it's not necessary, I've never—"

"Maybe not, but you were exposed to an unknown energy field not much more than a week ago, and it would be a good idea to keep an eye on things, right?"

There wasn't really much she could say to that. Keeping her eyes down and trying not to remember than she had almost just broken the other woman's arm, Tara nodded and followed Christine back toward the Medical tent.

* * *

 

Spock approached the table outside of the Medical tent. He was still extremely reluctant to involve Dr. McCoy in their investigation, considering the doctor's current state; however, given the data now before him and today's incident with the captain, the situation had unquestionably progressed from worrisome to dangerous. McCoy was the Chief Medical Officer and the most experienced medical researcher on the ship. It would be illogical and possibly foolhardy at this juncture to not at least attempt to utilize McCoy's expertise.

"Dr. McCoy."

The doctor was sitting hunched behind the table, staring down at a variety of pads and equipment with unseeing eyes. The Medical staff appeared to be giving both the table and their commanding officer a wide berth—even to Spock's untrained sensitivities, their worry and discomfort were undeniable. For his part, McCoy failed to react to either Spock's presence or his voice.

"Dr. McCoy!"

Spock rarely chose to raise his voice. In this instance, however, it seemed necessary. McCoy raised his head slowly, and Spock endured several seconds of flat, unseeing gaze before the usually sharp blue eyes focused. It was … more disturbing than he cared to admit.

"What, Spock?"

"Doctor, I require a moment of your time."

McCoy sat back. "You  _require_ , do you?" An oddly welcome hint of his customary irritation tinged the southern drawl.

"Indeed." Spock presented a data pad without waiting for further response. "This is the most recent report from the excavation site. Please see—"

"The dig team? What does that have to do with—"

"Please see Nurse Chapel's report and comments submitted last night regarding a follow-up brainwave scan performed on Lieutenant Lincoln."

McCoy took the pad, muttering. "Why're Christine's reports coming to you, anyway? The Medical data should be completely separate from—"

"I requested it. It seemed—"

"You  _requested_  it?" McCoy scowled. "Look, Spock, I don't know if that big Vulcan brain of yours remembers who's in charge of Medical, but my staff—"

With an effort, Spock suppressed an urge to rise to the doctor's bait. "Please see the scan results, Doctor."

McCoy glowered, but his gaze fell automatically to the pad. He stilled, and tilted his head, and for a moment his eyes sharpened. "This isn't …" The doctor sat forward, scrolling back to the beginning of the scan data. "This can't be right. They're …" McCoy looked up at Spock, frowning. "These readings are worse than the first ones I took. They should be completely back to normal by now."

"And yet they are not." Spock hesitated. "Doctor, Nurse Chapel performed this scan after finding Lieutenant Lincoln wandering asleep through the camp last night."

"Sleepwalking?" McCoy rubbed at his eyes. Focusing on the conversation at hand seemed to require a great deal of effort. "Lincoln doesn't have any history of that."

"Indeed." Spock folded his hands behind his back and plowed ahead. "The captain has also been exhibiting … unusual behavioral signs." McCoy's head came up. "This afternoon he disappeared while out with a survey team, and was missing for more than three quarters of an hour before his Security escort finally located him behind a—"

"Wait just a minute!" McCoy snapped, standing. "If something's been going on with Jim, why is this the first I've heard about it? I don't—"

"Doctor, have you been feeling at all well yourself?"

McCoy's mouth snapped shut. Spock surveyed him gravely for a long moment, noting the distant, uncertain flicker in the blue eyes. The lack of immediate denial was … most telling. The silence stretched. Finally, Spock continued.

"Dr. McCoy. There is growing reason for significant concern regarding the health and safety of the crew members who were exposed to the unknown energy surge. We have expended significant effort in attempting to isolate the cause, however, as of this time no answer is forthcoming." Spock produced a second data pad and offered it to McCoy. The CMO took it absently, unquestioning. "I request that you return to the  _Enterprise_  with Captain Kirk and the other affected crew members. Safety must, of course, be our primary concern, and I am not convinced that we are able to offer adequate protection from these … behavioral aberrations while on the planet." McCoy remained silent. Spock suppressed a shiver of disquiet at the unaccustomed acquiescence. "Once aboard, I request that you begin a detailed analysis of all pertinent data, using any crew and equipment at your disposal. Our entire data file since arrival is downloaded onto this pad. If you require the assistance of any crew member currently on the surface, inform me and I will return that person to the ship at once. Perhaps you will be able to offer some direction to our efforts."

He fell silent. McCoy continued to stare at some point past Spock's left shoulder.

"Dr. McCoy!"

McCoy shook himself, blinked, then sagged heavily back into the camp chair. "You know what, Spock? Okay. You might be …" He glanced at the data pads before him again. "Okay. But you need to be the one to get Jim back up to the ship. I'm not …" He blinked again, running a hand over his face. "He's not gonna like it, and I'm not up to the fight."

The admission produced a bitter taste in Spock's mouth. "I will see to it, Doctor." McCoy nodded, his eyes drifting back to the data pad. Spock hesitated, uncertain whether he should speak. "Doctor, is there—"

"I  _don't_  want to talk about it, Spock."

"Very well." He stood for a moment longer, but McCoy's focus had drifted again. Spock turned on his heel. Given the doctor's current inactivity, it would be wise to charge Nurse Wylean with ensuring McCoy's compliance in returning to the  _Enterprise_. The necessity was … perturbing, given the doctor's usual indefatigable nature. He was preparing to duck into the tent when his name sounded from the direction of the main pavilion.

"Mr. Spock!"

He turned. Lieutenant Haron sprinted across the intervening space, closely followed by Ensigns Alverez and Bandheri. The humans radiated excitement, and despite his best efforts, Spock felt an answering anticipation rise within him. He stepped back from the tent entrance and waited.

"Mr. Spock." They arrive before him, flushed and breathless. Haron thrust a data pad into Spock's hands. "Look at this."

It required only a brief glance to understand their agitation. Spock read the data twice to be certain he fully understood its import.

"Ensigns." They straightened perceptibly. "What led you to compare these two data sets?"

Bandheri flushed. Alverez spoke, barely able to contain her enthusiasm. "We, uh…" She exchanged a quick glance with the other ensign. "We played a hunch, Sir."

Humans and their hunches. Had he been conversing with McCoy, Spock would have likely allowed himself to be distracted into a sharp, detailed argument regarding the illogic of human 'intuition'—more out of principle than from any futile denial of this odd but indisputable facet of human nature. As it was, he simply nodded.

"Very well done, Ensigns." The young officers fairly glowed beneath his praise. Spock eyed the pad again. It seemed that a visit to the dig site was in short order. He handed the pad to Alverez. "Please return to the pavilion. I wish to discuss your method and findings in further detail." Best to first find Nurse Wylean, before he became too caught up. "I will join you shortly."

They nodded and turned away. Spock stepped toward the entrance.

"Mr. Spock!"

He halted again, and turned back. Lieutenant Garrovick skidded to a stop before him.

"Mr. Spock, Danny Jersa's gone. We can't find him anywhere."


	5. Chapter 5

Had he been human, Spock might have accused circumstances of conspiring against him. As it was, the logical outcomes of an increasingly complex scenario prevented him from beaming to the excavation site until the following morning.

Dr. McCoy returned to the  _Enterprise_  with far less fuss than Spock might have expected, given the fact of a missing crewman and Kirk's stubborn refusal to leave Dorcanis V. He was uncertain whether the doctor chose to go quietly because he understood the necessity of the requested research, or whether McCoy's condition simply rendered him incapable of further argument. In the end, however, Spock chose not to ponder the topic in detail. Other matters took precedence. McCoy transported within an hour of their discussion—though, upon reflection,  _discussion_  was perhaps a strong word for the exchange—submitting only one personnel request before he took his leave. Spock was unsurprised by the name on his pad. The CMO and the Head Nurse had a long and productive working relationship. If anyone would be able to support and goad McCoy through both his condition and the long hours ahead, it would be Christine Chapel.

He was, however, not entirely ready to transfer Chapel back to the ship. McCoy might be angered by the delay, but for the moment Spock required her where she was. It was ... regrettable, but could not be avoided.

Spock chose not to discuss the matter with McCoy before the doctor beamed away.

He  _was_  surprised that McCoy, whatever his state, would willingly leave a psychologically compromised Jim Kirk on an unfamiliar planet. The doctor had in the past shown a decided lack of regard for orders of any sort when he felt the captain's safety in question. It was perhaps best, however, not to pursue that topic too closely, either. Such a use of his time would be illogical, as it would only lead back to the foregone conclusion that McCoy was not well. Perhaps the doctor been telling the truth when he claimed himself unable to deal with Kirk's objections at this time. Perhaps he trusted Spock—not an entirely novel concept, but always nevertheless a source of mild amusement and gratification—to do as he had promised and return Kirk to the ship. In any case, the fulfillment of that duty was enough to tax even Spock's ingenuity.

In the end, success lay in Spock's cold insistence that by remaining, Kirk only distracted from the search and rescue efforts. Whether Kirk realized—or would admit—that his behavior of the past week had been atypical, the captain could not fail to note the concern exhibited by his Security staff. He cajoled, argued, and finally issued a direct order to the three ensigns who had shadowed him since his disappearance the previous day. Their body language screamed discomfort, but they refused to abandon their post. No matter their awe of James T. Kirk, they understood that at the present time their captain was indisposed. Finally, Kirk turned on Spock.

"Fine," he snapped. "If my going back to the ship will get  _them_  out looking for Lieutenant Jersa, then just  _fine_. Better three of them than one of me." Spock could not help but notice the furtive dance of Kirk's hazel eyes over their surroundings—watching, wary—even as the captain pushed close and held up a warning finger. "But this is  _not_  over, Mr. Spock."

"Understood, sir."

It was illogical to feel pride that regret did not tinge his voice. Both were decidedly un-Vulcan; however, in this instance neither was anyone's concern but his own.

Kirk turned on his heel and stalked to the beam-out site, muttering. Spock remained frozen in place for a long moment, watching until Kirk disappeared in a golden wash of transporter effect. He reminded himself that his captain was not well, either. When the situation had stabilized, he was certain that Kirk would understand Spock had acted in what he felt were the best interests of the ship, the captain, and the crew. He hoped, at least, that would be the case. Regardless of Kirk's ultimate reaction, however, Spock had done what he must.

The captain's guards hovered nearby, shuffling uncomfortably. Spock dismissed them to their search parties, then turned to the young woman standing behind him. "Ensign?"

"Sir?" Marie Jensen straightened, her crisp red uniform drawing a sharp contrast with the dull brown of the dust and rock that surrounded them. It was easy to tell which Security officers had beamed from the  _Enterprise_  specifically for the search.

"You know the location of our assigned search team?"

"Yes sir."

"Then lead on."

A full day's search revealed nothing. Neither did it bring any check-in requests or research updates from the  _Enterprise_. The only communiqué received from the ship at all, in fact, was Mr. Scott's apologetic admission of failure to locate Lieutenant Jersa with ship's sensors. Spock was uncertain whether to be relieved or concerned that Kirk was giving all things planetside a wide berth. He could not say the same regarding McCoy's lack of communication—he was admittedly disappointed, though perhaps not so surprised, by the silence from that front. In any case, the search for Lieutenant Jersa, unrevealing as it was, was his priority for the day. The darkness was nearly complete—Dorcanis V's moons were both fast approaching their new phase and offered little assistance—when Spock gave the order to call the parties in for the night.

"We are working in darkness and unfamiliar territory. To continue at this juncture would be to unacceptably endanger the search parties."

Neither Security Chief Giotto, who had beamed down to lead the search efforts, nor Lieutenant Garrovick disagreed with this decision—their Security training told them the same. Garrovick's face was drawn in the pavilion's harsh lighting. "We don't even know what condition he's in. If he's anything like the captain—if he's  _trying_  to hide from us …" He shook his head. "Danny's hiked and camped in some pretty extreme places. He always knows the lay of the land. If he doesn't  _want_  to be found, I don't know what our chances are."

"Noted, Lieutenant." Spock surveyed the officers milling throughout the camp. "Ensure that the search crews rest—it may be another long day tomorrow." He glanced at the science equipment, idle for the past day. "My own time, I think, may be better served in continuing with the attempt to determine the cause of these behavioral alterations. To that end, I intend to visit the excavation site tomorrow—I believe it may contain pertinent data." They must have been curious, but they were either too tired or knew their Vulcan First Officer too well to ask for details before Spock was ready. Spock looked to Garrovick. "I wish to speak with Ensigns Alverez and Bandheri at their earliest convenience. Please see that they receive water and food immediately, then send them here."

"Yes, sir."

Garrovick disappeared into the darkness, and Spock moved to activate his monitor. There was much to do before dawn.

* * *

 

The sun had barely breached the horizon when Spock beamed to the excavation site. He waited for the transporter effect to fade, then nodded to Christine Chapel, who was standing just beyond the beam-in point. She fell into step beside him, guiding him toward the Medical tent as they spoke.

"Mr. Spock, I have someone bringing Lieutenant Uhura. We didn't know you needed her, and she's already gone down to her work site. It should only be a few minutes."

"Thank you, Nurse."

"Have they …" Chapel's blue eyes flickered. "Have they found Danny Jersa yet?"

"They have not."

She looked down. "Do you think they will?"

"Speculation is at this time illogical. We have nothing upon which to base a theory." She flushed, and he softened his tone. "It is … not encouraging that the lieutenant has not yet been located, given the area already covered by the search teams."

"Ah." Chapel sighed, and glanced over the excavation site. "He's a good kid."

"Indeed."

"And what about Dr. McCoy and Captain Kirk?"

Spock suppressed his own sigh, and followed her gaze. The uncovered ruins already rose to more than his own height in places, intricately worked and yet, by virtue of their nearly identical coloring, blending smoothly into their surroundings. Even a quick glance made clear that this place had been a city of immense beauty and grace. The archeologists and geologists assigned to the dig team crawled around and through the buildings, chattering softly and yelling to each other and making detailed notes on pads and notebooks and—at least once that he saw—exposed skin. He turned his eyes away and saved that reprimand for later. Sloppy detailing was, at this moment, the least of his concerns.

"I am unaware of either the captain's or Dr. McCoy's current status, as I have yet to receive any pertinent report from the  _Enterprise_." In theory, this could be taken to mean that their conditions were stable, or at least had not substantially deteriorated. However, one could only assume so much based on a  _lack_  of data. "I would suspect, however, that Dr. McCoy is most displeased with me, as he requested your presence aboard ship and I have yet to enact your transfer."

Chapel stopped. Her voice was tart. "And why is that, Mr. Spock?"

"Given our previous discussion, I wished to consult with you before your return to the ship." Spock ignored her mild censure and continued to move forward. Eventually, having no choice, she followed. "Events, however, transpired to delay my arrival here until this time."

"What about Dr. McCoy?"

"The doctor has an extremely competent medical staff aboard the  _Enterprise_. They will perform admirably in your absence. I required your presence here, with Lieutenant Lincoln and Ensign Catrell, until such a time as their own mental status could be determined."

Chapel sighed and shook her head, but their arrival at the Medical tent preempted whatever her response might have been. They ducked through the partially-open flap, but Chapel halted him just inside with a light touch to his sleeve. Spock raised a questioning eyebrow, then followed her eyes to the far rear of the enclosure.

Huddled in a dark corner, tucked beneath a supply table, was Ensign Catrell.

Spock looked quickly back to Nurse Chapel, who shrugged. "Mary Clayton found her there last night. As far as we can tell, she's been here for about six hours."

"As far as you can tell?"

"The tent was only empty for a few minutes last night, Commander—that was her only timeframe to get in without anyone noticing. At any rate, though, she's not speaking, sir. She's not responding at all, to any of us. She's just …" Chapel shook her head, her eyes soft. "She's hiding, poor girl. Hiding from something, and she thinks for some reason that she's safe there. I don't … I don't know where  _she_  thinks she is."

_Hiding_. The term had been used to describe Jim Kirk as well. Spock looked back toward the huddled woman. Her face was tucked into her knees, but even at this distance he could hear her shaky breathing. "You've examined her?"

"Of course." Chapel retrieved a medical tricorder from the nearby table. She passed it to Spock, who scanned the data as she continued. "I've been keeping a close eye on her since we arrived, like you asked. For the first couple of days nothing was visually out of the ordinary—at least, not that I noted. She seemed tired, but then …" Chapel waved her hand vaguely, "everyone here is tired. It comes with the job." She sighed. "Yesterday morning, though, she was … different. Extremely distracted. Drummand yelled at her twice, and finally sent her off to another team." Chapel's voice tightened. "He was loud enough for the whole camp to hear, and Carrie was crushed, of course. That man needs a kick in the pants, Mr. Spock. He's got no right to be—"

"I will endeavor to impress upon Lieutenant Drummand the need to be more circumspect in his dealings with his team members." Spock headed Chapel off before she could give full vent to her opinions regarding Jason Drummand's leadership abilities. The  _Enterprise's_  Head Nurse had spent far too much time in the presence of Leonard McCoy. "Please continue."

She pursed her lips, but went on. "He sent her to Lieutenant Uhura's group, so I asked Nyota to keep an eye on her. Uhura didn't notice anything, but I went last night before bed to check on her and she wasn't in her bunk. A few of us started looking, and that's when Clayton found her here." Chapel nodded to the tricorder. "You see all her readings—brainwaves off, stress hormones spiked, heart rate up no matter what I do." Her eyes, her voice were frustrated. "She's terrified, Mr. Spock, and I don't know why, and I can't seem to do anything to help her."

"Indeed." Spock nodded slowly, considering. If Ensign Catrell had succumbed to this … delusion, then it was possible that Lieutenant Jersa was wandering or collapsed somewhere in a similar state. It was also possible—likely, even—that the captain and Dr. McCoy would eventually be trapped within their own minds as well. Spock did not know how much time he had left, but considering the state of Caroline Catrell and likely of Daniel Jersa, it seemed to be growing short. "Lieutenant Lincoln?"

The tent flap stirred, and Lieutenant Uhura slipped in. He greeted her with a nod, as Chapel grimaced and shook her head.

"I've had her under moderate sedation since the incident yesterday morning."

That was … unanticipated. "For what purpose?"

"She was very upset about the sleepwalking, and she also didn't take the news about her brainwave scan well." Chapel chewed absently on her lip. "Which is in itself odd, because usually Tara Lincoln is completely unflappable. But from what she said, she's been having the same dreams for the past week, and I think it's been wearing her down. I thought she could use some real rest, and I also …" She shook her head. "Honestly, after we heard the news that Lieutenant Jersa had gone missing, I didn't want to take the chance that she'd wander off too."

"Indeed. Quite logical." Spock considered. "Did she tell you what these dreams have been about?"

"Yes sir. An incident at the beginning of her career—she and three other officers were trapped on an uninhabited planet by a Klingon landing party. She ran and drew the Klingons' attention to keep the others safe, and was almost killed herself. Apparently her captain and Security chief heard the noise from the chase and came to investigate just in time."

He nodded slowly. "I see." Perhaps the dream patterns of the other officers involved in the incident was a path to pursue. He had, at this time, very little else to go on. Catrell and Jersa would, of course, be impossible, but it was possible that the captain or Dr. McCoy could add to the discussion. If either one of them were still speaking to him. "Thank you, Nurse." He turned to Nyota Uhura, who had been waiting quietly just inside the tent opening. "Lieutenant."

"Sir." She stepped forward. "Ensign Tanner said you wanted to see me?"

"Indeed. How go the translation efforts?"

Her deep brown eyes lit with both enthusiasm and frustration. "Not quickly, Mr. Spock. We have no comparison data, of course, so we're starting completely from scratch. The writing itself is fascinating, though. I'm sure you've seen in my reports that it's partially script, partially pictorial. We don't know yet if the pictures are symbolic or literal representations—at this point I would tend toward the latter, but that's really just speculation. There's no shortage of it to study, though. The majority of the inner walls of every one of these buildings is filled with it—it's almost as if their written language was as much … oh, decoration for them as communication tool."

"Fascinating."

"It is." Uhura nodded, her enthusiasm for the task evident. A frown marred her features. "There are whole sections of it missing, though."

"Clarify."

"In what we believe to be the main hall near the center of the city, for example, many of the writings have been … obliterated."

"Purposefully?"

"Oh yes. The lines around those section are very straight, they cut through other script and features on the wall without any effort to preserve the integrity of what they did leave. And the depth of whatever did this—we haven't been able to determine what it was, but it  _looks_  like a giant sander has gone through—is very uniform. Whoever or whatever did this wasn't being randomly destructive. The  _point_  was to erase that particular writing."

Most intriguing. Were other matters not pressing, Spock would have been most interested to spend a day or more in study here.

As it was, there was no time.

"Lieutenant." He held out the pad he had brought with him. Uhura took it, activated it, and began to scroll through the data. She stiffened after only a few seconds. Her eyes flickered up to him and then back down, continuing to read for another long moment before she paused the data and turned a puzzled gaze on him.

"Sir, what is this?"

"It is a comparison of our pooled data regarding this planet's unknown energy surges with your language report from two days past."

Uhura's brow furrowed. "The … energy surges?"

"Indeed. Your impressions, Lieutenant?"

She squinted back down at the pad. "I can't say for certain without a detailed examination, sir, but at first impression the overall flow of your energy surge data, all taken together, seems … very similar to the cadence and structure of these people's written language."

It was, then, as Ensigns Alverez and Bandheri had speculated, unlikely as such a theory had seemed at the time. The similarities made very little sense, given the disparate data sets involved. And yet … he could not disapprove of the initiative, even as utterly illogical as such a comparison may be - especially as it had born fruit. His team had already determined that the surges could not be naturally occurring. The entirely random nature, the failure to in any way conform to the surrounding geologic or atmospheric conditions, could lead to no other conclusion. Therefore, what were their other choices? The planet's extinct populace became a prime point of interest.

It also became a new and concerning variable in his quest for answers regarding the increasingly strange conduct of the captain's survey party. If the surge which had sparked their behavioral aberrations had somehow been the result of intelligent thought, no matter how long ago …

"Lieutenant, please make this your priority."

"Yes, sir. What am I looking for?"

He quirked a wry eyebrow. "Whatever you find."

Uhura's dark eyes blinked as she took in the enormity of her task, then she nodded briskly. "I'll get right on it, sir. Would you prefer that I compile my findings before sending them, or do you want regular updates as I—"

A ruckus rose in the outer camp, yelling and the sounds of equipment crashing. Spock exchanged a glance with Uhura and Chapel, and the three ducked through the tent flap in time to see Tara Lincoln bolt past, followed by three other officers.

Chapel swore roundly. "There's no  _way_  she should be up, not with the dose I gave her!" The nurse bolted back into the tent. Spock heard rummaging, then the hiss of a hypo locking into place.

"Tara, wait!"

Lincoln continued blindly, with no hesitation or sign that she even heard her pursuers. She cut around a near building, but backpedaled when two Archeology lieutenants appeared in front of her, drawn by the chaos. She stumbled around, turned again when she came up against the Security team who had initially been pursuing her, and slammed straight into Spock's waiting grip. She fought with a fierce, unthinking intensity, but only for a moment. Chapel's hypospray darted over Spock's shoulder, hissed, and an instant later Lincoln went limp against him. Spock swept her into his arms, but instead of turning toward the Medical tent he moved toward the beam-out site.

"Mr. Spock!"

"Nurse Chapel, return Ensign Catrell to the  _Enterprise_  with all speed. Be prepared to remain there yourself, as well. The situation appears to be … progressing." Chapel nodded, and turned hastily back toward the Medical tent. "Lieutenant Uhura!" The Communications officer appeared on his other side, her face pinched with worry. "I require any data as soon as you obtain it."

"Yes, sir. I'll begin immediately." Uhura, too, hurried away. Spock continued to the beam-out coordinates, feeling the weight of the unconscious lieutenant in his arms, ignoring the startled glances and whispered frenzy that broke out around him as he passed.

If he hoped to consult with either Kirk or Dr. McCoy about their recent dreams or in fact any other matter, he suspected that he had best do so quickly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the nudge, dkpalaska. :-)
> 
> (I will finish this. I will ... :-P)

_He waited until long after the sounds of voices and movement had faded before crawling back out from under the boards. His hands were shaking and his heart hammering—this had been far too close. Usually, he avoided the soldiers with ease._

_Usually he never got caught to begin with._

_The barn was dark and still. The smell of rotten hay made him want to gag, and he did, but it didn't matter. There was nothing left in his stomach to come up. He considered the hay, wondering if there weren't a few strands that were still good enough for him to try choking down, but decided against it. The last thing he needed was to make himself really sick. He bypassed the rotting pile and crept toward the door._

_He didn't see anyone through the cracks in the ruined planks, and for a second he felt like crying with relief. It had been too long, though, and he had seen too much. He didn't remember how. Instead he pushed at the rotting wood, hoping it didn't crash open and give him away. It creaked, but the sound was mostly lost in a gust of wind. He picked his way carefully over the crumbling threshold, glanced around once more at the mostly empty fields stretching away from the little building, and then moved into the open, low and quick. If he was lucky, he would make it back to their hideout without seeing anyone else tonight._

_He made it almost to the hill before a lazy voice stopped him in his tracks._

" _Hey, kid."_

_For a split instant he looked around, even though he should have been running. The soldiers were grouped on either side of the old barn, watching him._

_His heart skipped several beats at once, and his head swam with dizzy horror. He'd_ heard _them leave, he'd_ heard _them go on into the trees beyond the building. He'd only stayed quiet for so long to be extra sure, he'd_ heard _them go …_

_They stepped out from the darkening shadows. One of them motioned with his gun._

" _Get back here, you little punk. We've already been out here way longer than we wanted, don't run again and make it worse." He grinned, a dark leer. "You don't want us any madder than we already are, right kid?"_

_They'd known all along. He couldn't breathe, the fear was choking him. They'd realized he was in the barn, and instead of dragging him out they had let him think that he was safe so that he'd come out on his own. They were playing with him …_

_The mist increased into a drizzle. The soldiers started toward him, and although he should have been already running, his legs were frozen._

_He had nowhere to go. The soldiers were between him and the trees, and there was nothing but open fields in every other direction. He might have been able to lose them in the dry creek bed from earlier, but there was no way to reach it without getting shot. Now that they could see him, their aims would be better. Deadly. The soldiers weren't supposed to just gun people down, it looked bad, but there was no reason for them to keep him alive if he caused too much trouble. They would say they'd had no choice, and no one would argue._

_There was nowhere to go._

_He was trapped …._

* * *

 

_They were still following her, and she didn't know what to do. Should she run, and hope that someone on the street or in one of the surrounding apartments would see her? Should she scream? She should definitely scream, but her throat was so dry that the sound wouldn't come. Should she pound on a door? The doorways on the outside were main entrances, not direct into anyone's apartment. No one might hear her. Should she hide?_

_She should hide. But where? They could see her already, they knew her movements. It would have to be someplace quick, someplace she could just drop into as soon as she turned the corner—before they managed to do the same. Where should she hide? Where_ could _she …_

_The stairwells. The stairs leading to the main doorways of the apartment buildings around her had hollowed-out sections beneath most of them. Even if they weren't very deep, the shadows would swallow her and they might miss her if they weren't expecting it. She dashed for the nearest building, aiming her steps toward the corner and the stairwell just beyond it. Their footsteps sped up to match hers, pounded behind her …_

_The concrete stairs loomed ahead of her. She ducked beneath them and pressed against the smooth brick. The breeze rustled her hair. Across the near road, a shadow blocked the light from an upper apartment window. In the street, their footsteps slowed, and muttered curses surrounded her. They didn't see her anymore, but they knew she couldn't have gone far. She tried not to sob aloud._

_Could she make herself smaller? She tried to crouch down and her foot slipped, scuffing against the concrete. The voices fell silent, and then the footsteps drew closer._

_They'd heard her._

_She did sob out loud now, now that it didn't matter. A hand grabbed her and pulled her out. She tried to run, but stumbled straight into her second pursuer. Above them, the outer apartment door opened and voices drifted down. The noises meant nothing to her—her fear was too complete. She tried to pull away, but the hands held her fast._

_She was trapped …._

* * *

 

_The sun beat down on him, blinding him, drying out his mouth and eyes and nose and lips. His water had been gone for more than twelve hours, and even though he'd kept the canteen he knew better than to hope he'd find more. Tola Starin wasn't exactly known for its abundant water supplies._

_His knee twinged again, but he ignored it. He already had too many other semi-major injuries, he didn't want to know what was going on there. It was stupid, and maybe it would cost him … but he couldn't do it. Right now, he couldn't keep reminding himself of everything stacked against him. He needed to leave himself a little bit of hope._

_The air was still. Dead. His mind shuddered away from that, but he couldn't keep the sight of Casey and John, broken and still at the base of the rockslide, from overwhelming him again. Stupid._ Stupid _. Casey knew better than to go poking around so close to the edge in an unstable area—at least he should, if he was the survival level he claimed and was hiking someplace like this. But now Casey and John were … dead … and he was here, injured and with no working communicator and no way to reach anyone on the outside but to finish the hike they had set out to make._

_He hadn't planned on doing it with a broken ankle, broken ribs, and no water._

_This was the last time he let anyone assign him hiking partners just for the sake of not having anyone wandering their planet alone. It was obviously not the safeguard they thought._

_What was he thinking? Better get himself out of here first,_ then _worry about next time._

_The cliffs rose up around him, steep and high. He continued on, stumbling through the dried-out remains of what had once been a narrow but powerful river, millions of years ago. There was nothing down here with him, no plants or shade or … way out. He had passed a few climbing exits already, but he was in no condition to make the attempt, especially alone. The nearest hiking exit was still miles away, but he was making such slow time and the sun was already starting to set. He wouldn't make it before night fell, and that was … a problem._

_The lack of food was an issue, but it was the lack of water that would be fatal. He didn't have time to waste on an overnight stop—the hours without water were already starting to tell on him—but he also couldn't keep going overnight. The terrain was uneven and dangerous, if you couldn't see where you were going. There were usually no predators down here at the bottom, as there was no vegetation for miles and very few smaller animals, but that was no guarantee. He certainly looked and felt like prey right now—one look at him, and any predator worth the title would be sure to make an exception. Usually a fire or other artificial light was enough to keep most animals at bay—anything on this planet, anyway—but he didn't have any of that. All he had was himself._

_The cliff walls rose around him. The sun beat down on him. Night was coming._

_His empty canteen beat against his leg, the rhythm broken in time with his stumbling gait._

_He needed water. He couldn't stay here. Night was coming. He couldn't keep going._

_The cliff walls loomed over him. There was no way out._

_He was trapped …._

* * *

 

_They were getting closer. She crashed through the brush, not bothering to try for stealth. At first, of course, she had been trying to draw their attention, draw them away from the others. Now it didn't matter anymore—they knew she was there, they knew her basic location. Slowing enough to quiet her passage was pointless unless she found someplace else to hide._

_At the moment, that wasn't looking good._

_She had come to an area that was mostly just trees and small, scrubby underbrush—no broken cliffs or other rock formations of any kind. Some of the trees looked climbable, but she didn't think she had time and wouldn't trust herself to that anyway. There was no reason to think the Klingons would miss her clinging to the lower branches of anything small enough for her to attempt._

_Harsh, guttural cries reached her ears._

_Tears streamed down her face, into her nose and mouth, and her knees were shaking so badly she could barely stay on her feet, but she kept running._

_The Engineering lieutenant—Braglin? She hadn't even been aboard long enough to remember everyone's name—had at least tried to stop her, but the Klingons had been so close and they'd been out of options if they didn't want_ everyone _caught. She hoped the others had made their way back to the main party by this time, that they'd at least told someone that she was in trouble. She didn't know if there was a chance that anyone from the ship could find her before the Klingons did, but she'd been doing her best to give them time to try._

_The Klingons were getting angry over their lack of success—she didn't understand their language, but she could understand the change in tone as well as the next person. She was proud that she was giving them such a hard time—at least, she would have been if she could stop long enough to think about it—but that also meant it would be worse for her when she was caught._

_She couldn't think about that._

_She rounded a tree and crashed through a row of low scrub and almost tumbled straight down the bank of a little stream. Crap, she couldn't go down here, it was too steep. She'd have to either turn around or keep with the stream until the bank leveled out or enough tree roots gave her access to climb down. The Klingons were getting closer, she couldn't turn around. Which way should she go, then? The brush was thick and close to the right, she might not be able to force her way through it. The bank got steeper to the left, but she would just have to try it. Worst case scenario, she would jump for it and hope she didn't break anything. It wasn't the smartest move, but at this point her options were limited. The creek bank before her or the Klingons behind—there wasn't really much of another option._

_She was trapped …._

* * *

 

" _Daddy, what's wrong?"_

" _Nothin', JoJo. Go back to sleep."_

_In the dark his daughter hesitated, then burrowed back beneath her blankets. He settled back against the doorframe, watching until her breathing deepened back into sleep._

_She was everything to him—the best, the_ only _thing he had left. Everything else was … a shambles. A disaster. A big fat crazy mess that, even if it wasn't entirely his fault, was at least a situation that he hadn't done much to remedy over the past years._

_And now it had come to this._

_He was a doctor first. Jocelyn had known that when they married, but neither one of them had really understood what that meant—what a strain it would be on their lives, their relationship. The hours away from home had lengthened, unnoticeably at first until one day he had looked around and found that his own home was all but unfamiliar to him. Jocelyn had been unhappy with him, but after a few months of confrontation at the very beginning, she had just fallen silent on the matter. It hadn't taken him long to realize that she had gone looking outside of their marriage for the closeness she craved, but neither of them talked about it for long, tense months. He didn't know if she was actually having an affair—it seemed likely, but the last thing that he wanted was to accuse her of anything without proof. It would just make a brittle situation … worse._

_He_ still _didn't know for sure and in the end, that lack of knowledge didn't really matter. The hospital was his affair as much as … whatever-his-name-was may or may not be hers. They didn't know how to be together anymore, they were two complete strangers living in the same house. Even if he had been willing or able to back away from his work, to let it become only a part of him instead of all of him, Jocelyn's allegiance had transferred to another man. She didn't love him anymore—if what they'd had in the first place could ever really have been called that. He didn't know. Looking back, he doubted it, although at the time it had seemed like at least a good approximation._

_It was over now, officially. Oh, the papers hadn't been signed, but they'd talked finally._ Really _, truly talked, like they hadn't in years. If they'd talked like that in the beginning, or maybe even the middle, who knows what they might have saved? But they hadn't, and now it had come to this. At least there'd been no yelling, very little bitterness or anger even. They were far past that point. The discussion had been filled with … regret, more than anything. The mutual agreement of two people who both knew what was coming and had just decided not to fight it._

_He thought that might be a wrong decision too, but it was made._

_And now what? Did he stay? Even if he agreed with their decided outcome, there was a lot here that he wanted to put behind him. The memories were everywhere—in the hospital, because he knew that it was what had taken her place. In his apartment, because he knew it wasn't his home—not really. In the quiet, down moments, because (ironically) he thought about their life together now more than ever, and what their life would be like apart. He needed to move away from all of that. He needed to make a fresh start away from this place and the memories and Jocelyn._

_But … there was Joanna. Joanna, who he loved more than anything or anyone he had ever known. He_ had _to get out here, but if he went, he left her behind too. What did that mean for him? For her? Would she understand? Would_ he _understand, in the long run? Would he forgive himself for missing her birthdays and dance recitals and science homework?_

_Could he keep up their relationship, the only real solid one he had left, even from … somewhere else? Wherever else that might be?_

_He_ had _to get out, to give himself some space. But how did he do that, how could he make that work, when Joanna was still here?_

_He was trapped …._


	7. Chapter 7

Spock stepped off the transporter platform when they rematerialized and deposited Lieutenant Lincoln on the waiting stretcher. He offered a brief history of her condition to Nurses Chapman and Bing'tor, informed them of the imminent arrival of Nurse Chapel and Ensign Catrell, then inquired regarding Dr. McCoy's location. Upon learning that the doctor was in Science Lab 2 rather than Sickbay, he parted ways with the emergency medical team and directed his steps toward the turbo lift.

McCoy was huddled over the center table when Spock entered. He glanced around the room and found Nurse Adams and Ensign Taminah, a recently arrived Communications officer with a background in emergency medical response, together in a corner. They had been hunched over an auxiliary monitor, comparing the data on its screen to that on a pad in Taminah's hand, but both straightened when he entered, casting uneasy glances in McCoy's direction. Having only just arrived, he could not be certain whether their agitation was a result of some reprimand from McCoy, or whether it stemmed from anxiety over the doctor's uncharacteristic behavior. In either case, it was best to speak with McCoy first. Spock thought it likely that the reports from nurse and ensign would be substantially the same now or in another thirty minutes; with McCoy, he could not be so certain.

"Nurse. Ensign." Spock aimed a brief nod toward the exit and they scurried into the corridor, radiating relief. He turned back, preparing to fight for McCoy's attention, but the dull, dark-ringed eyes were already on him. "Doctor."

"Where's Chapel?"

He was vaguely relieved that McCoy remembered the request. The emotional reaction was, of course, unacceptable, but it was also understandable, given that he had taken no time for sleep or meditation in nearly thirty hours—and he had been lacking in both even at that point. Much had occurred to require his attention since the early-morning conversation with Garrovick, Wylean, and Haron in the field pavilion. "She will arrive shortly, Doctor. I could not spare her until this moment."

"Hmph." McCoy leaned against the table, tapping a stylus. "So much for 'I'll send that person back to the ship at once'."

Spock offered a small bow. "My apologies, Dr. McCoy. Nurse Chapel was the only crew member at the excavation site aware of our potential … issues. I required her presence until such a time as I was able to determine whether Lieutenant Lincoln and Ensign Catrell were any immediate danger. Unfortunately, the disappearance of Lieutenant Jersa complicated matters."

McCoy grimaced. "Disappearances do tend to do that." His eyes strayed to the overhead clock. "How long's it been?"

Spock blinked. "Pardon?"

"It's 1123 hours. I came back at … 0800. Was that …" The doctor frowned, then squinted at the monitor in the table. He scrolled slowly through the data. "That wasn't … today anymore, right? It can't be. How long's it been?"

His previous relief, such as it was, abruptly dissipated. "You are correct, it was not today. You returned to the  _Enterprise_  yesterday morning."

McCoy nodded, gaze flickering around the lab. "Well?"

The doctor's inability to maintain visual focus for any length of time was disconcerting. Spock attempted to follow the thought process behind McCoy's question; however, he found himself at a loss. "Explain."

"How  _are_  they? If Chapel's coming back up here now, what does that mean?"

Ah. "Both Lieutenant Lincoln and Ensign Catrell have slipped into hallucinatory states, Doctor. They have been sedated for safety reasons and returned to the  _Enterprise_."

"I'm guessing no one's found Jersa yet?"

"Negative."

"And it's only a matter of time before Jim and I lose it, too."

The idea was even less pleasant, phrased so abruptly. "It is … a likely hypothesis."

"Huh." McCoy looked away again. Spock waited, but after forty-eight seconds determined that the doctor's attention had drifted. He circled the table to stand before McCoy's blank gaze.

"Dr. McCoy!"

" _What?_ "

For once, Spock accepted the scowl as a positive sign.

"How is your research progressing?"

McCoy took a long breath and squinted down at his data. "The, uh … the memory centers seem to be the most affected. At least, so far that's the area where the highest levels of brainwave disturbances have been localized."

Memory centers. That was not entirely unexpected, given Chapel's report of Lieutenant Lincoln's recent dreams. "In what way?"

"How do you mean?"

"In what way are they affected?" Spock clarified the simple question for a man who was, under normal circumstances, one of the quickest medical minds he had yet to encounter. "Are older memories revisited? Is memory suppressed? Are the alterations permanent?"

"I don't know yet." McCoy squeezed at the bridge of his nose. "I can't even … I'm not sure there even  _is_  an  _alteration_. Just that they're the highest level of off."

The highest level of off. A brilliant new medical term, perhaps. At the last moment, Spock swallowed the retort. As much as he desired some level of normalcy, it was most illogical at this time to risk taxing McCoy's already overloaded concentration.

"Are you able to correct it?"

"Spock, I don't even know what  _it_  is yet."

"Indeed. However, we are—"

"What we  _are_  is in no position for me to start muddling with people's brain chemistry before we have any idea what's  _wrong_  or what I'm even trying to  _do!"_

Put in such a fashion, Spock could not argue.

"Very well." He stopped short of asking for an estimate—the doctor had, at the present moment, only the vaguest notion of the passage of time. In McCoy's current state, such a request would be meaningless. Spock located a nearby stool and pulled it close, settling his weight gingerly onto its edge. McCoy's eyebrow crept up. Spock ignored the reaction and continued. "What of your … personal experiences with this, Doctor? According to Nurse Chapel, Lieutenant Lincoln has been dreaming of a specific moment in her early career since the encounter with the energy surge. Have you been having any manner of focused memory recall in the last few days?"

McCoy's response involved something between a cough and a snort. "Oh, no you don't."

"Doctor?"

"I don't need you going all pointy-eared psychologist on me. If I wanted—"

"Doctor." Spock resisted rolling his eyes—a highly human action that was nonetheless a legitimate temptation. "You may trust that I have no desire to practice any manner of psychology on you, 'pointy-eared' or otherwise. I would also point out that Vulcans do not—"

"Gimme a break, Spock." McCoy scrubbed at his face with both hands. "What I'm  _sayin'_  is that I've got no intention of—"

"Dr. McCoy." Spock rebuffed the refusal before it was even spoken. Such an invasion of privacy was regrettable, yet he had very little other option. "I have even less desire than you might imagine to impinge upon your private memories. That said, the situation is grave, and is yet declining. Such dreams and hallucinatory events are, at this time, one of the few avenues of investigation open to us. I will be requesting the same information from the captain after I leave you." McCoy remained silent. "You may be assured that under no circumstances will I reveal—"

"Shut up, Spock." The rough voice cut him off, and blue-clad shoulders slumped. "You know what, I don't even care." McCoy shook his head and looked down, fiddling again with the stylus. "My divorce. I've been dreaming about it, and …  _thinking_  about it. A lot." He rubbed at the back of his neck and shrugged. "It's almost  _all_  I can think about, actually." The blue eyes dropped and slowly lost focus, taking on a far-away glint.

McCoy's divorce. It was … unexpected. Spock was certain that his surprise showed, despite his belated efforts to cover it. He was, however, equally certain that McCoy took no notice. Spock mentally rebuked himself for being swayed by unfounded expectations. Because Lincoln's dreams had been violent was no reason to assume the same for McCoy. He channeled away the frustration with himself as best he could and wondered briefly what a flight from Klingons and divorce proceedings might have in common.

He was, however, speculating without adequate data again. He had information from only two of the five. Although it was possible that the dreams and hallucinations bore some common thread, it was illogical in the extreme to either ratify or discard such a theory with so little evidence. He must not allow himself to be swayed by the decreasing time available to him—the answer could only be gained by approaching each new lead in a solid, rational manner. Spock suppressed any further pointless conjecture and returned his attention to the doctor.

"What can you tell me of these memories, Doctor? Does any particular—" McCoy did not look up or otherwise respond. Spock suppressed yet another flash of annoyance. "Dr. McCoy!" No response. He attempted again, and again the doctor remained absolutely still, his eyes glazed and dim, his breathing quick but shallow. "Dr. McCoy?"

It seemed, however, that McCoy had finally succumbed to the fate of Ensign Catrell and Lieutenant Lincoln, and perhaps Lieutenant Jersa as well. Spock eyed the doctor for a long moment, then rose. He must speak with the captain, and quickly. He crossed to the wall comm, but even as he reached for it, Scott's voice burst forth.

" _Transporter Room ta Commander Spock, please respond."_

Spock flicked the switch. "Spock here."

" _Sir, ya'd better hurry. Captain Kirk's gone and transported himself back down ta the planet."_

* * *

 

He passed the stretcher carrying Ensign Catrell on the way to the transporter room. When he arrived, he found Scott at the controls and Nurse Chapel crouched over Kyle, stanching the flow of blood from a wound over the transporter operator's ear. Kyle pushed her away and began to rise when Spock entered, but Spock waved him back down.

"Report."

"Captain Kirk just burst in here like a madman, if you'll pardon me, sir. He paid no attention to anything I said, I don't think he even heard me. He came straight at me—by the time I realized what he was about, I …" The lieutenant flushed, and looked down. Chapel reapplied the cloth above his ear, muttering under her breath. Spock shook his head and moved to join Scott.

"It was in no way your fault, Lieutenant. You could not have known that the captain was so completely engrossed in his hallucination."

Kyle and Chapel exchanged a long glance.

"Aye, sir, thank you. Anyway, when I woke he was gone, and the controls showed a transport had taken place. I had just alerted Mr. Scott when Nurse Chapel called for beam-up. We brought her up and then called for you."

"How long ago?"

Kyle paused. "I'd say about ten minutes, sir."

Spock turned his attention to the transporter controls. "Have we determined the location to which the captain beamed down?"

Scott shook his head. His thick brogue was apologetic. "Nae, sir. At least, nae exactly." He indicated a blinking panel. "Captain Kirk erased his coordinates before he beamed away. I've been able to narrow it down to an area of about six of our search grids, but nothin' more specific than that." He shrugged. "The captain knows his way around the equipment."

He remained still for a long, silent moment, carefully blocking away the frustration and worry. There was no time at this moment to spend in controlling them or siphoning them away—therefore, they must be separated from his working thoughts until he found time to deal with them in meditation. That done, Spock nodded. "Indeed, he does. And while more often than not such knowledge has proven useful, at this time it is … unfortunate."

"Aye, sir," Scott agree wryly. "Very unfortunate."

Spock spent a few minutes at the controls himself, but was able to learn no more than Scott. Kirk had indeed covered his trail quite well. He took a long breath, then flicked the comm switch on the transporter controls.

"Two Security members to the transporter room, armed and equipped for first aid."

Scott stepped around the controls to face him directly. "Mr. Spock, what are ya doin'?"

"Please inform Chief Giotto of recent events, and instruct him to continue with the search for Lieutenant Jersa. I will contact him shortly with further orders regarding Captain Kirk."

"Sir, he isna goin' ta like that. Ya know the captain's the primary—"

"Instruct him to await further orders, Mr. Scott." The engineer hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Thank you. I will beam to the center of our defined area and gather first impressions." He was pleased that he had not yet removed his own tricorder, communicator, and phaser since returning to the  _Enterprise_. "It is not ground which we have yet studied."

"If ya'll pardon me, Mr. Spock, it may not be wise ta—"

"Your concerns are noted, Mr. Scott."

The doors swished open before Scott could argue further, and two Security officers entered. Spock nodded a greeting, and moved with them onto the transporter platform. Scott eyed him for a long moment, then shook his head and moved back behind the controls.

"I dinna need ta tell ya nae ta take any unnecessary risks, sir."

"Indeed, you do not."

The Chief Engineer rolled his eyes and muttered something too low for even Spock to hear. However, he obediently activated the controls, and a moment later Spock and his Security detail were reappearing on the surface.

Spock activated his tricorder, while Lieutenants James and Cantor fanned out to perform a quick survey of their surroundings. Although they had not yet studied this portion of the planet, the land on which they had materialized was substantially similar to the already-familiar terrain. Brown, sandy rock stretched around them, broken into crags and gullies, some surfaces smooth with centuries of wind and sandblasting, some yet sharp and defined. The sun's heavy heat fell on them from above, and reflected back from glittering particles in the sand. It reminded Spock somewhat of his home planet. Vulcan, however, had never been so empty.

And empty it was. His tricorder found no sign of the captain, in any direction. He motioned for James and Cantor to join him. Their reports matched his own.

"No life-signs, sir. Nothing at all."

"Very well."

As the captain was, presumably, not carrying a communicator, the  _Enterprise's_  sensors would likely be no more successful in locating Kirk than they had been in finding Lieutenant Jersa. In any case, however, it was standard procedure, and Scott would be certain to inform him if they did manage to locate Kirk from the ship. For the moment, he was left with a quandary. Pick a direction and walk—an illogical move, as any direction they chose would be utterly random and therefore highly unlikely to be the correct one—or call for reinforcements from Giotto's search parties and wait for them to arrive. Neither was an attractive prospect, given that both offered the captain substantial time to move even farther away from their current position.

He was reaching for his communicator to contact Chief Giotto when a burst of wind scoured a plateau to their left, and the low rock formation began to visibly tremble.

An energy surge.

James and Cantor fell back, aiming their phasers toward the disturbance. Spock chose not to waste time pointing out that phasers were unlikely to do any good here. Instead, he slung his tricorder off of his shoulder, adjusted it, and moved slowly closer.

"Commander!"

"Remain in your positions, Lieutenants."

He was dimly aware of their disconcerted murmurs, but continued on. This surge, just as the surges that they had already recorded and studied, did not register as any known type of kinetic energy. Neither was it electrical or nuclear—the last was so unlikely that he didn't actually test for it, but his tricorder was set to its broadest setting and registered the lack regardless. He paused for a brief moment, considering, then slung the instrument back over his shoulder and moved forward again.

"Mr. Spock!"

"Hold, gentlemen."

Since their arrival, the surges had remained indefinable, defying all attempts at classification into any of the known categories.

" _Mr. Spock, look. Do you see anything familiar here?"_

Any of the known categories, that was, they had actually tested.

" _At first impression the overall flow of your energy surge data, all taken together, seems … very similar to the cadence and structure of these people's written language."_

Perhaps, then, they had simply been testing the incorrect type of energy. Spock paused at the base of the shallow plateau, then stepped onto its slope. The rock vibrated beneath his feet. Behind him, James was speaking, low and quick—doubtless reporting to Scott his unexpected departure from safety protocols. Spock ignored the lieutenant and moved forward. His skin tingled. The inside of his skull … itched. He reached the flat surface, anchored himself firmly on both feet, and thinned his mental shields.

As a Vulcan, Spock's strongest telepathic abilities depended upon physical contact. He was, however, more than capable of sensing mental focus even without the aid of touch, and the power of the mind which pressed now against his own partially unshielded consciousness was … staggering. It was in the rock beneath him and the wind around him, changing and molding them to its will, ignoring him as if he were nothing and yet still exerting a pressure that was fast becoming unbearable. For a brief instant he reached out, and in doing so, felt beneath and around him the rippling of an entire river of telepathic minds. Then he slammed his shields back into place, gasping against the overwhelming urge to black out where he stood, and stumbled back down the slope. The Security officers met him halfway.

"Mr. Spock, are you—"

"Contact Chief Giotto at once, Lieutenant." Spock's voice was hoarse, and he was forced to squint against the sunlight, which suddenly seemed far too bright. "Tell him to pull all of his teams back to the central camp and to wait for us there." He looked back to the plateau. It had stilled, and blended now into the rest of the silent landscape. Spock suppressed a shiver. "Tell him … we must reassess any and all of our assumptions regarding this planet and our search efforts."


	8. Chapter 8

"So you're saying the energy surges are alive?"

Spock closed his eyes briefly. His experience on the plateau had left him with a lingering headache, which was sharpened by the bright sun and the clamor of voices around him. "Your conclusion is … premature, Mr. Giotto." He moved toward the field pavilion, intent on reaching its shade before making any attempt to control the throbbing in his left temple. "They are indeed the result of sentient thought—that much was clear to me. What is less clear is whether the surges themselves are some manner of non-corporeal being, or whether they exist apart from their source—an unintended result of a thought process, or perhaps a specific working for some particular purpose."

Giotto traded a glance with Garrovick before following Spock into the shade of the tent. "You think they could be hostile." It was more statement than question, and Spock wondered again at the tendency of humans to immediately jump to unsubstantiated and antagonistic conclusions.

It was, he reminded himself, Lieutenant Commander Giotto's duty to prepare for all contingencies.

"We have no data upon which to base such an assertion." Spock laid his tricorder on a table and turned to face the Security officers. "I sensed no  _intention_  at all in the mind-touch, hostile or otherwise. It is possible that the surge—or the mind behind it—was not even aware of my existence."

"Aware or not, look at what happened to our people," Garrovick protested.

"Indeed." Spock nodded slowly. "Given this new information, it seems we can no longer simply assume that an energy surge was solely responsible for the current condition of the captain and his party."

The young man gaped. "Mr. Spock, they said—"

"None of the party retains any memory of the event, Lieutenant. Ensign Catrell's tricorder recorded nothing during that time period that matches any of the other surges noted to this point. Responsibility for the incident was at that time assigned to an energy surge as the logical cause, based on our belief that nothing else existed on the planet capable of producing such an effect." He folded his arms thoughtfully. "We now know that base assertion to be flawed—despite appearances to the contrary, sentient minds are present and active on this planet. Therefore, the energy surges are no longer our only rational explanation." Spock peered beyond the tents, into the bright, flat reaches that stretched away from the camp. On the horizon, flickers like lightening sprang up and quickly died away. "It would, in fact, be best at this point to make no assumptions at all."

"It would be  _best_  to be on our guard, no matter what." Giotto slapped his communicator absently against the palm of his hand. "We might not be able to assume they're hostile, but they're sure not acting friendly." He held up a hand to stall Spock's objection. "I'm not saying their version of friendly is anything we would understand. I do get that. I'm also not saying we shoot first and ask questions later. The fact is, though, that these people, or whatever they are, have stayed completely under our radar. We know nothing about them. We have three officers down and two missing—one of which is the  _captain_ —and right now, no idea whether this was an accident, an assault, or something else entirely. Until we know what we're dealing with, I think our only option is to treat this situation as a hostile unknown."

The ramifications of such a decision were far-reaching, and Spock was, as a matter of course, reluctant to agree with such an approach. Past first contact experience, both his own and more widely documented instances, indicated that an attitude of open defensiveness during contact with a new species led inevitably to strained initial relations which were, more often than not, difficult to overcome. And yet, the safety of every crew member on the surface of Dorcanis V was at stake. There was no question of returning the search parties to the ship—not with Captain Kirk still missing. It was incumbent upon him, therefore, to see as best as possible to the well-being of the men and women under his command in an unknown situation.

"Very well, Mr. Giotto. It is … logical."

"Thank you, Mr. Spock." The Security Chief made a note on his pad. "I've placed you at the head of one of the captain's search parties. You'll be—"

"I will not be joining a search party, Chief Giotto."

Both Security officers gaped, and Garrovick blurted, "You're not going to search for Captain Kirk, sir?" Spock raised an eyebrow. Red immediately stained the young lieutenant's cheeks, and he looked quickly away. Spock ruthlessly suppressed both the throbbing in his temple and the small voice which insisted that Garrovick was correct.

He could not, at this time, afford to adopt such a narrow definition of the concept.

"I will indeed be searching for the captain and Mr. Jersa, Lieutenant. However, as we have multiple search teams on the ground, I believe that my time would be better spent in determining what occurred to the captain's party during the missing thirty minutes. If we are not able to physically locate them either on foot or with scanners, our most viable alternative is to attempt to determine what drove them to flee from our group and to anticipate where they might be going."

Giotto and Garrovick exchanged another long glance. "Where are you going to get that information, Mr. Spock? Return to the site?" Giotto shook his head. "That's a big unknown—we don't know what could be waiting there. It may not be safe to—"

"I shall return to the site if necessary, Mr. Giotto." Spock took a long breath, already beginning to mentally prepare himself for what was ahead. "If all goes well, however, I will learn what occurred directly from those who were there."

* * *

 

Uhura met him in the transporter room, falling into step as he entered the corridor and made his way toward Sickbay.

"What have you learned, Lieutenant?"

She shook her head, frustration creasing her brow. "Not much, sir. This language isn't like anything we've ever seen, it doesn't fall into any of the usual patterns. We just don't have anywhere to start—it's like trying to decipher hieroglyphics without the Rosetta stone."

Spock nodded. The lack of progress was disappointing but also unsurprising, given the lieutenant's earlier report. While pictorial data was often seen as less sophisticated, it had also been known to add extreme complexity to written script. "Very well. And the energy surge comparison?"

"That's going a little better." Uhura offered a pad. He took it, but kept his eyes on her as they moved along. "There is definitely some sort of connection—the surges compare on multiple points to the pictorial sections of the written text. Running both through the  _Enterprise's_  computer, I've been able to match the surge data to specific pictures with an 84.7 percent certainty." Spock nodded. It was logical that the planet's indigenous people would have written about or otherwise documented the surges in some manner. "They also …" Uhura blew out a long breath and shook her head. They had reached Sickbay, but stopped in the hall before entering. The lieutenant's expression was puzzled. "Sir, Ensigns Alverez and Bandheri were correct. There is a definite similarity between the overall flow of the surge data and the flow of how the pictorial symbols appear to be used within the writings here."

"Explain."

"I can't." Uhura shook her head. "They're not a perfect match. But, there are also far too many similarities to be just coincidence. It's almost …" She fell silent, biting her lower lip.

"Continue, Lieutenant. If you have speculation, I wish to hear it."

"Yes, sir." For a moment, she searched for words. "It reminds me somewhat of the differences between spoken and written language. Written communications are generally the more tightly constructed. They're more formal, usually, and in general they lack the melodic flow of oral speech. Obviously there are exceptions, of course—poetry and such … but you understand." Spock nodded. "In any case, the  _language_  is the same, the words and structures and patterns are similar, but we don't write the way we speak. Almost no species does."

It made perfect sense, given Spock's own recent discoveries regarding the living minds behind the energy surges. "Thank you, Lieutenant. That is … most enlightening." The implications of such a concept—the energy surges as a part of an alien language—were less certain, as was his ability to manipulate such knowledge to their advantage.

"Thank you, sir."

"Please continue with your investigations. Report any new discoveries to me at once, or if I am unavailable to Mr. Scott and Lieutenant Haron."

Her curiosity was evident, but Uhura was too tactful and well-trained to inquire. Spock watched her go, considered the new information for a moment longer, then entered Sickbay.

McCoy had been retrieved from Science Lab 2 during Spock's absence, and currently occupied the biobed on the far end of the bay. Spock paused for a brief moment to survey the bioreadings above Lincoln and Catrell—both women's vitals were stable, if elevated—before joining Dr. M'Benga and Nurse Chapel at McCoy's bedside.

"What is the doctor's status?"

"Completely unresponsive." M'Benga shook his head. "I'm tempted to try a stimulant injection, but I don't know what it would do to him and I don't think we're at a point yet where we should chance it."

"You have not sedated him like the others?"

"No need." Chapel shrugged. "The readings for Lincoln and Catrell are all indicative of extreme stress. They're also both having mobile hallucinations—if we didn't sedate them they'd probably be off with the captain and Danny Jersa somewhere. Dr. McCoy …" She trailed off, sighed, and waved toward McCoy's readings. "Well, see for yourself. All of his readings other than his brainwave patterns are practically normal. He's not physically stressed, at least not according to these. And he's not going anywhere, he hasn't so much as twitched a finger since we brought him in."

"Curious."

Why should McCoy's hallucinations be different? What set the doctor apart? It was yet another unknown. The situation was fast becoming … quite vexing. Spock moved his thoughts quickly away from the frustration and focused on the immediate present. McCoy's lack of sedation did at least make his current plans far more workable.

"Mr. Spock?" M'Benga reclaimed his attention. "Is there any news on the captain, sir, or Mr. Jersa?"

"Negative."

"Danny Jersa's been missing for over twenty-four hours." Chapel smoothed absently at the cover on the biobed. "What if we can't find them?"

"It is too early to assume the worst, Nurse Chapel." Spock's words were harsher than he had intended, and she looked quickly away. He took a long breath, acknowledged to himself both his need for rest and the impossibility of doing so, and continued in a more even tone. "I intend to learn what occurred to the captain's party during the missing thirty minutes. Perhaps the knowledge will aid us."

M'Benga's eyes flickered between Spock and McCoy. It didn't take the Vulcan expert long to divine Spock's purpose. "You intend to mind meld with Dr. McCoy."

"Affirmative."

Chapel frowned, uneasy. "Would Dr. McCoy approve? You know he's not always … well, comfortable with this kind of thing."

"Actually, he would." M'Benga circled the bed, squeezing Chapel's arm and snagging a nearby chair before Spock was able to offer any manner of response. The doctor settled the chair next to the head of the biobed. "Dr. McCoy and I have had this discussion more than once. He may not be personally comfortable with the process itself, but he admits its validity in medical emergencies. He would give permission for this if he was able, and he'll accept my permission as valid now." M'Benga's eyes locked onto Spock's. " _If_  you have some solid reason to believe that this is necessary—which I'm guessing you do, as Vulcans don't generally just jump into and out of melds for no purpose."

"Indeed." Spock raised an eyebrow. "I was … unaware that the two of you had engaged in such a discussion." On reflection, it was a foolish statement. He was, obviously, unaware of the vast majority of conversations that occurred on the  _Enterprise_. That said, given the topic and McCoy's particularly unique views, he found himself most curious regarding both the discussion itself and its possible outcomes. Perhaps he himself would raise the topic with McCoy at a later time.

After the doctor's silence and sluggishness of the past week, he found that he rather anticipated the argument that would surely result.

M'Benga grinned briefly. "Between my specialty and your presence on the ship, it would be illogical if Dr. McCoy and I  _hadn't_  talked about this a couple of times, don't you agree?"

"Of course." Spock offered a curt nod. "It is both logical and applicable to the task at hand, given your assurance that Dr. McCoy would approve the meld. Even should we locate the captain and Mr. Jersa, we still have no idea what occurred to them or how we may endeavor to resolve their conditions. Short of attempting to establish contact with the minds I sensed during the surge—an action I am willing to attempt if necessary, but which is far more potentially dangerous—a mind meld is the only option I foresee as being able to offer us any solid information."

M'Benga and Chapel exchanged a long look, then the doctor nodded. "Agreed, Mr. Spock." He motioned toward the chair. "Prepare. We will remain and monitor the meld."

"Very well."

Spock sat swiftly, closed his eyes, and sank into the shallowest meditative level. He centered as rapidly as possible under the circumstances, pulling strength and calm from deeper levels that were as yet undisturbed by his lack of meditation and sleep. He allowed time for that calm to settle, to flow into the farthest reaches of his mind and body, and when all was in readiness, rested his fingers gently along the contact points of Dr. McCoy's face.

* * *

 

_He was two, and his other self was trapped._

_The weary acceptance wrapped around them, dragged his other self into unthinking immobility, staggered and drained him. He fought against it, forced himself to rise above it, introduced his own sense of stable calm as a shield against the quicksand despair._

_His other self was unnoticing, uncaring. He began to view the memories thick around them—a small girl asleep in her bed, a woman who brought both happiness and deep pain. Angry words pressed on him, battered at his calm. His other self was unmoving, trapped—he must leave the woman, but couldn't leave the child. What could be done? What choices even existed?_

_None. His other self was trapped …_

_He poured more of his own calm into the looming darkness, and finally, sluggishly, his other self responded. No curiosity, but acknowledgement. He urged his other self to move, to stir, to focus on something other than the child and the woman—something other than his pain and the prison he had built for himself between them. We must remember_ now _, not then. What of today's events, and yesterday's? What of last week's? What happened to trap us with this woman and child, even though they are both far from here?_

_Without enthusiasm, his other self followed his lead, offered the information he sought. Vague, faint memories swam into focus—Science Lab 2, the Medical tent on the planet below, the camp spread around them. The flat, dry reaches stretching under the sun to the far horizon._

_The cliff, and the path around it. The captain and several officers sprawled in a heap at its base …_

_His other self balked, backed away. Gently, he urged them forward. Reluctantly, his other self complied, moving back, picking himself off of the ground … and then leaving the camp with the captain and their party, chatting amiably with the—_

_Wait, we missed something._

_No, this is next. There's no between._

_There is. What of the time on the ground, before rising?_

_His other self tensed. There's nothing._

_There is, there must be._

_There's nothing! His other self showed him, displayed the darkness wrapped around that time, and even his own gentle pressure revealed no depth, no give in the blackness. It was strong, firm, and his other self was undeniably anxious._

_What is here?_

_Nothing._

_His other self shied away from the emptiness. He pushed against it again, tested it, and found it familiar, found it shimmering with telepathic force. Found the feel, the taste, similar to what he had experienced on the planet, during the surge._

_There_ is _something here._

_Get rid of it._

_His other self was anxious, avoiding it, distressed by it._

_What is on the other side?_

_Nothing._

_But there is._

_Get rid of it._

_He drew his own strength to the fore, his calm and his mental force, and the darkness bowed beneath its weight. It was too strong for his other self, perhaps, who was from a race with little telepathic strength, but it was not constructed to withstand his own solid mental training. He focused again, pushing harder. The darkness began to crumble. His other self edged forward._

_Get rid of it!_

_One last, strong push dissolved the emptiness. His other self was still behind him, but was also behind the dark barrier, and burst through with enough unexpected force to push him from the meld …_

Spock gasped and sat back, blinking. A swearing and thrashing rose beside him, and the bioalarms clamored. He shook his head, and focused, and locked gazes with the startled blue eyes staring back into his own.


	9. Chapter 9

"It was … there was a cave." McCoy shuddered. "Well, more like an overhang, but you could get pretty far back beneath the rock. We were tired, and it was cool out of the sun, so we thought we'd have a seat and take a rest." His eyes lost focus briefly. "Get a drink. I was happy anybody was listening to me about hydrating for once."

The doctor sat cross-legged on the biobed, hands wrapped around a cup of strong black coffee. He had requested something stronger, but M'Benga demurred.

"Let's just start slow, shall we?"

McCoy accepted the substitution without fuss, and Spock was pleased to note that the easy acquiescence was recognizable as simple exhaustion rather than the unseeing distraction of the past week. The doctor stretched, settled deeper into his place, and ran a slow finger along the cup's rim. Given the gravity of the topic, Spock chose not to distract from McCoy's tale by pointing out the unsanitary effects of such a habit.

"The captain's report indicated a cliff face." Spock himself was still feeling the aftereffects of the meld and its violent conclusion in the form of a mild headache. Chapel had required very little urging to convince him that in this instance, his previous seat by the bed was preferable to his customary standing position. "This cave was at the base of an incline?"

McCoy frowned deeply. "Well … yes, but not a cliff."

"Then this was not the place where—"

"Oh, it was the place all right." McCoy's jaw tightened. "But it wasn't a cliff when we got there."

Spock would have protested the illogic of such a statement—a solid rock structure such as a cliff face did not simply spring up over the course of thirty minutes' unconsciousness—but the doctor's eyes were distressed and angry, daring him to argue. He reminded himself that doing so would serve no useful purpose, and nodded for McCoy to continue. The CMO eyed him suspiciously, but after a brief moment took up his narrative again.

"So, we'd been there for about ten minutes when Lincoln and Jersa found the writing."

"Writing?" Spock straightened. As of yet, neither his team nor the excavation team had detected any signs of habitation or intelligent life—other than the surges, of course, which could be safely placed on an entirely different level than abandoned buildings and written script—outside of the fairly confined excavation area. This was the first indication that Dorcanis V's civilization may have extended beyond the city and its surrounding valley.

Given the living minds he had sensed within the surge, it was also … troubling, that Captain Kirk and his party had immediately forgotten—been  _made_  to forget—this discovery.

"Yeah, off in a back corner. They called Catrell over to do some scans, and started poking around some more. There was …" McCoy shook his head, and his grip on the cup tightened. "There was a  _lot_  of it, the writing, all packed together, and it wasn't laid out like you usually see. No straight lines or top to bottom or just random placement along the rock face. It was all kind of … spiraling out from one of the recessed spots near the base." That was indeed unusual. Spock frowned, and McCoy lifted a wry eyebrow. "Jim decided to crawl up under there and see what he could find."

It was very like the captain—Jim Kirk had never been shy of a little dirt in the pursuit of a greater purpose. Spock nodded cautiously. McCoy had been … quite vocally indignant upon waking to learn that Kirk was missing and that Spock was not actively leading the search on the planet below. It had required the combined efforts of M'Benga, Chapel, and himself to convince the doctor that Spock's current pursuit was both necessary and timely if Kirk and Jersa were to be safely retrieved and all party members returned to full health. McCoy had finally admitted the sense of their argument; however, Spock privately confessed to some faint trepidation that the topic would resurface with the mention of the captain's name.

His concern was unfounded.

"A couple of seconds later he was yelling for us all to come in. When we—"

" _All_  of you, Doctor?"

"Well," McCoy growled, "the rock face was stable and it wasn't like there was anything else out there to worry about, right? It seemed safe enough." He snorted with the irony of it, and Spock was reluctantly forced to agree. In a similar situation, and given similar variables, it was altogether likely that he would have acted in a similar manner.

How often did they need to be reminded that appearances were, in fact, quite deceiving before they managed to learn from their mistakes?

"Continue." McCoy nodded, but seemed strangely reluctant. Spock raised an eyebrow. "Doctor McCoy? Time is of the essence."

" _Thank_  you, Mr. Spock, I'm well aware," the doctor snarled, but his shudder and tightened grip on the coffee cup belied the irritation. He was … nervous. Anxious. Spock looked away, allowing McCoy a moment to collect himself, and wondered briefly whether the paper cup would stand further continued pressure. McCoy spoke again before it became a concern. "It opened into a large cavern, and from what we could see with our lights the entire thing was covered in writing. We were just starting to look around when all of a sudden our, uh … our entrance went away."

Spock sat up. "The light from outside, or the entrance itself?"

"No, not the  _light_ ," McCoy snapped, and his jaw was rigid. "The  _whole thing._ "

"A rockslide of some sort? Perhaps the cliff face was less stable than—"

"There was no rockslide. There was nothing  _blocking_  it. It was  _gone._ " McCoy sat ramrod straight. He exuded an air of hunted defensiveness, as though he expected disbelief and argument. In other circumstances, Spock might have complied. He had, however, discovered far too much on his own since their arrival to feel the any immediate inclination toward either. "The whole area was just smooth, filled in rock, like there'd never been anything else there to begin with. Catrell and I started taking scans, trying to figure out what happened, Jim and Lincoln and Jersa started around the perimeter to see if we had any other way out, and then …" He took a deep breath, and the words exploded in a rush. "… the whole place started getting brighter."

"Brighter?" Spock frowned. "What was the source of this new illumination?"

"It was a woman."

That was … entirely unexpected. "A woman? Humanoid?" They'd speculated, of course, given the structure of the buildings and other factors at the excavation site, that that Dorcanis V's native species—or one of the native species, depending upon the outcome of the mystery regarding the sentient nature of the energy surges—was likely to be humanoid. Despite the many pictorial symbols spread throughout the writings, however, there had to this point been no visualization of the species itself. McCoy nodded abruptly. "And she was the … light source?"

"I think so. There wasn't a lot of time to tell, actually. I barely saw her before …" McCoy's jaw clenched again, and Spock was forced to rescue the paper cup before the hot liquid ended up all over both the doctor and the biobed. McCoy might not have even noticed. "All of a sudden, there was this pressure inside my head, like someone was flattening my brain with a steamroller. Everyone felt it, Jim was staggering around and I remember thinking he was going to fall, Catrell and Jersa were already down. The walls were … rippling, and rewriting themselves around us, and it wouldn't  _stop_ , and there was no way out. We were trapped in there …"

Rippling and rewriting? Smooth, solid rock where none had previously existed? The imagery was … disturbing, and after a brief instant he forced himself to set it aside. He had no doubt that McCoy was describing the occurrence as he remembered it. Whether it was an accurate account or a product of the doctor's traumatized mind was less certain. Spock himself had nothing with which to further speculate except his own memory of the powerful minds behind the energy surges. On the surface, this added complexity rather than the clarity he desired. He would, it seemed, be required to work with very little solid data if he was to locate the captain and Lieutenant Jersa before tragedy occurred—if such had not already happened. It was inconvenient, but he had often worked with far less in the past. Each piece of data, no matter how seemingly small, would be carefully studied for significance. He would form a theory and a solution.

He must.

There was yet more to ponder here, though, and Spock's thoughts shifted. The captain's party had been _trapped_. Spock remembered the meld with McCoy, the feeling of overwhelming and weary confinement. As of yet, there was no way to determine whether only the party's memories had been affected or whether something more sinister had also occurred. Regardless of what had been done to them, however, was it possible that some vague or subconscious memory existed of being cornered with no avenue of escape? The human mind was a complex and delicate system. Without a conscious outlet, might it make such fears and memories known through dreams and hallucinations? Kirk had been jumpy to the point of paranoia over the past week—could such have been the symptoms of a subconscious memory of entrapment? It was more than possible. It was … quite logical. Spock had no way of knowing the content of the other party member's hallucinations without additional melds, and he could afford neither the energy nor the additional time. However, it was an intriguing hypothesis, and may perhaps be useful in pursuit of Kirk and Jersa.

He looked back toward the biobed and found McCoy watching him. "And then, Doctor?"

McCoy hesitated, then shrugged. "And then nothing. Then we woke up, and we were at the base of a cliff that we thought had always been there, and as far as we knew we'd just walked around the corner, hit an energy surge, and passed out."

The abruptness was … startling. "Nothing more? You cannot say if—"

"No, Mr. Spock. I cannot." McCoy snagged his coffee cup from the bedside tray where Spock had placed it. "I must have passed out finally, because I don't remember anything else." He downed the scalding liquid in one long gulp, muttering an invective when it burned his mouth. "I barely remember anything  _after_  we woke up, either, until now. It's like I was half asleep for the last week." The blue eyes flickered quickly toward him, then back down. "Thanks for … you know. Helping out with that."

"Indeed, Doctor." Spock's mind was racing. It was not as much as he had hoped, but it was  _something_. This missing entrance, the mysterious woman, and the ancient, fluctuating script all seemed as key to his endeavors as the mysterious energy surges, and he would be able to gather information about none of them from the  _Enterprise_  or the base camp. It seemed that a visit to the cliff site was likely in order. "Your recovery is … gratifying."

"Yeah." McCoy glanced across the bay at Lincoln and Catrell, still sedated and in their biobeds, then down at his empty cup. "Wonder if M'Benga'll let me crack open the brandy yet?"

For one brief, utterly illogical moment, Spock was inclined to agree.


End file.
